


The Funny Ones

by ninetyfive



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Male Friendship, Pranks, boys being supportive, bullying at work, helping each other get dressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:10:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 64,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninetyfive/pseuds/ninetyfive
Summary: Robbie Williams is a young lad who’s in desperate need of a friend. When he one day decides to prank call a random number in the phone directory, he has no idea that fate will put him in touch with Mark Owen, an adorable bank cashier from a different town. Rob successfully manages to stitch Mark up several times, but it gets Mark in tremendous trouble at work. One of his colleagues even threatens to fire him if he doesn’t hang up the phone!There’s just one problem: Mark has accidentally fallen in love with the prankster. He doesn’t want to hang up at all. He desperately wants to MEET the prankster, but doing so will probably cost him his job.Does Mark really want to risk his precious job at the bank for a potential blind date that’ll involve fancy dress and prank shops?





	The Funny Ones

**Author's Note:**

> This story started out as a short drabble for a future Workplace AU, but I accidentally ended up writing a lot more than that. It starts off as light angst, but it turns into massive fluff the moment Rob and Mark meet.

 

Robbie flips through the phone book so quickly that the air catches underneath a newspaper clipping on the living room table and he accidentally sends it flying. Groaning, Rob picks up the crumpled newspaper clipping from the floor, gives it a dismissive look, then pops it underneath a phone book from a different area. He can vaguely remember his mum giving him the clipping last week, but he hasn’t even looked at it. He _thinks_ it says something about singers being wanted for a brand new boy band or something, but who the fuck wants to be in a boy band? Not him.

Not yet fancying the prospect of being a singer, Rob forgets about the newspaper clipping for the time being. He keeps flicking through the hundreds upon thousands of names and addresses in the phone book until he reaches a random page he likes the look of: a separate page with only the names and addresses of companies and institutions, no private numbers. By now, Robbie’s done enough prank calls to know that phoning a random company is the most fun by far.

With the page decided on, Robbie closes his eyes. He hovers his index finger above the two pages, takes a deep breath and points!

A police station. Maybe not.

Tired of his chosen area already, Robbie decides to use a different phone book altogether. Over the months, he must have collected about seven different phone books, all from different areas. One time, he even phoned a number as far as Oxford.

He flicks through the pages, then tries again. He closes his eyes and points. This time, his finger has ended up on something far more interesting: a small retail bank in the city centre of Manchester, specialised in saving accounts and credit cards — in other words, the perfect victim for a good old-fashioned prank call.

Grinning, Robbie starts writing down every single money-related joke his mind can conjure up.

♪

Mark didn’t hate his job at the bank when he started three weeks ago, but that was before he met Richard Toole. Richard only works at the bank on Fridays, but his dad owns the place so he can get away with just about anything.

One time, Richard successfully scammed an elderly lady into opening a very expensive checking account. A week later, he seriously insulted a customer’s looks. And just the other day, he spent his entire coffee break boasting about how many girls he’s planning to sleep with during his summer trip to Greece. When Mark politely reminded Richard that maybe he shouldn’t treat ladies so degradingly, Richard made a very unpleasant remark about the music lesson Mark goes to every week.

What’s worse, Richard also tends to get unnecessarily angry at colleagues for the stupidest things, like that one time Mark accidentally stapled the wrong sides of a pile of paperwork and he was asked to staple everything again. Understandably, Mark doesn’t like Richard very much.

Unfortunately, there isn’t much Mark can do. Mark’s already in his boss’ bad books after he arrived late twice last week, and Mark’s too nice to lose his temper anyway. As much as he dislikes Richard and his unpleasant behaviour, there’s probably a pretty good reason why he treats everyone so badly. Maybe he’s just having a bad time at home. Or he’s getting bad grades in university and he’s feeling frustrated. It could be anything. Whatever the reason, it won’t stop Richard from treating Mark like a dick.

Today, Richard’s decided to give Mark the ever-dreaded “desk duty”, meaning that Mark has to sit at a counter all day and help customers with all sorts of complicated money issues that Mark’s not sure he’s entirely qualified for, like mortgages and other important-sounding investment properties. With Mark still living at home with his parents, his sister, a dog and a fish called Jaws, he feels like he’s aged three decades in as many weeks. What on Earth is he doing, talking about money when he can’t even afford a _guitar_?

Actually — that’s not entirely true. The job pays rather well really, and as long as Mark doesn’t get fired he’ll probably be able to afford a guitar within a month or two. But: there’s no point buying a guitar _when you don’t actually know how to play one_ , and that’s where the music lessons at the local community centre come in.

Mark’s only been able to attend three or four lessons so far, but they’ve completely changed his outlook on life. Still a teenager, Mark was originally torn between becoming a professional footballer or a model or an Elvis impersonator, but he knows none of those careers are particularly realistic. He can’t become a footballer because of a groin injury; he can’t become a model because his mum won’t let him; and he can’t become an Elvis impersonator because, well, he doesn’t look like Elvis. He doesn’t really sound like him either.

But now, Mark knows exactly what he wants to do in life. He wants to be an entertainer. He wants to learn how to sing and write songs for a living. He wants to have the privileges of being a successful songwriter and learn how to turn his thoughts into lyrics and turn the lyrics into melodies. Mark already has the “melody” part down (his head is usually whirling with a dozen song melodies at a time), but he doesn’t really know how to write them down. He can’t even _read_ music, let alone write it.

He’s learning, though. With each lesson he attends, Mark feels himself understanding music more and more. Slowly but surely, he can feel himself floating away from his miserable life working as a bank cashier in Manchester. Soon, he’ll be soaring towards a proper future as a successful twenty-something, performing his songs to a thousand fans or more.

There’s just one problem, though: without his job at the bank, Mark can’t actually afford his music lessons. And without the lessons, he won’t get better. And if he doesn’t get better, well, then what’s the point? He can’t ever become a singer if he’s not any good at it.

In other words, Mark _has_ to keep going. He _has_ to show up to work — even if it means heading to work each day with a stomach ache, too scared to call in sick because he doesn’t want to get fired.

***

At half eleven, a welcome silence has settled over the bank. Mark’s desk is one of the few that is occupied this morning, and he just spent forty minutes telling a sixty-year-old woman about the precise functions of a debit card. Before that, he had to help a young student fill out his application for a loan. In the back of his mind, Mark kept repeating a song melody he came up with that morning, _desperate_ to write it down but not knowing how.

No new customers have entered the lobby for about thirty minutes, so Mark bravely decides to step away from his desk and head to the restrooms for a quick piss. If a customer does show up, his co-worker Stephanie, who has been filing her nails for the past five minutes and absolutely hates her job, will be able to cover for him. Stephanie, Mark and Richard are the only employees in today. Their boss is away for a conference about credit cards.

If Mark had to describe the bank, he’d probably say it’s a lot like the other companies he has worked for: small, local establishments, with only eleven or twelve employees on the entire payroll. The only thing that makes Observer’s Bank different is that it also employs three trainees from the local university.

In the building itself, there is a wide, spacious lobby where customers can sit and read brochures about different types of debit card; a cash machine (usually broken); a water dispenser (also broken); a small office where customers can go for more private conversations about their debts and credit cards; three desks; and a special vault. Mark doesn’t know what’s inside the vault.

Behind a locked door, there is a long corridor leading to a single, dirty restroom, the boss’s office and a small staff room where Richard spends most of his time. Richard only ever walks into the lobby to give his colleagues a telling-off.

So far, Mark hasn’t met anyone on his way to the restroom. He thinks he might just get away with abandoning his desk when a door opens on his right and Richard suddenly walks out, bumping into him. The collision sends pieces of paperwork flying towards the floor, and Richard scampers to pick it all up, groaning and complaining.

Then Richard looks up and realises who he’s bumped in to. A dark shadow passes over his unpleasant face as he gets up from the floor without bothering to pick up the rest of the papers. His face has gone quite red in the effort of doing a minimal amount of work for the first time that week.

‘Shouldn’t you be at your desk, Owen?’

In spite of it being April, Mark finds that he is suddenly feeling very cold inside. He tries his hardest not to look like he was Up To Something. ‘Yes, but there was no-one around, so I thought—’

‘So you thought _what?’_

Mark trembles at the angry look Richard suddenly gives him. He might have been quite an attractive lad really — if not for the fact that Richard’s face has been utterly spoiled by his foul expression.

‘So I thought I would get up and go to the toilet?’

The words fade in Mark’s mouth. It is clearly the wrong answer; Richard suddenly looks very annoyed with Mark indeed, and it translates into his voice, suddenly sounding as angry and loud as if he were chiding an unpleasant child:

‘What if a customer walked in and saw that all the desks were unoccupied? What if someone needed your help and you weren’t there? Or worse — what if they went to the bank at the other side of the street instead?’ Richard lowers his voice. It makes him sound even scarier. ‘You don’t want to be responsible for my father _losing_ _customers_ , do you? _Do_ you?’

Mark has to swallow before he can answer. He looks back at Richard nervously. ‘No, but —’

‘Then head back to your desk before I tell my father you aren’t doing your job,’ Richard spits. He says it with such venom that Mark’s body tenses up, completely stopping him from pointing out that his colleague Stephanie is covering for him in the lobby. ‘Now get rid of the papers on the floor while you’re at it. And quick!’

By the time Richard has disappeared back into the staff room, Mark has started shaking. He _wants_ to give Richard the benefit of the doubt (after all, Mark has only been here for three weeks, and his mum has taught him to be kind to everyone), but Richard is making it incredibly hard for himself. Richard is crude. He’s mean. He’s loud. He’s laddish, in a bad way. Even if there _is_ a good reason for his behaviour, Mark’s not sure if he’ll ever forgive it.

Trembling, Mark has no choice but to return to his desk. No customers seem to have walked into the bank in his four-minute absence, and co-worker Stephanie is still filing her nails. Richard’s lecture was meaningless.

Mark chains himself to his desk anyway. He tries closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to steady his heartbeat, but it doesn’t help. The trembling doesn’t go away. Stephanie doesn’t leave her desk to ask him how he’s doing. No-one does. Mark’s only worked here for three weeks, but it feels like he’s been stuck here for years, alone.

Similarly, the ten minutes that pass after Mark’s altercation with Richard feel like a century. No new customers arrive in the meantime. None of his colleagues talk to him, and Mark’s almost beginning to believe that everyone here hates him when suddenly the phone on his desk rings. He was just about to write a lyric about his colleagues in a small exercise book that he usually hides underneath a pile of old paperwork.  

Reluctant, Mark closes his exercise book and picks up the phone. He taps his pen irritably against his desk.

‘Observer’s Bank, Mark Owen speaking,’ Mark says in the politest voice he can muster up. He doesn’t really pull it off: his voice is still shaking. ‘How may I help you?’

Silence at the other end of the line. In the background, the lobby rings with the sound of Stephanie loudly announcing that two more customers have arrived.

Mark tries again. ‘Observer’s Bank, Mark Owen speaking.’

No reply. Puzzled, Mark puts down the phone.

When Mark looks up again, he can see that the customers that Stephanie was talking about have already approached Mark’s desk. They’re a father and his nineteen-year-old daughter who would very much like to set up a bank account so the girl can go to university next year. The daughter is extremely pretty, and Mark forgets the phone call almost immediately.

***

The rest of the day is more of the same. Richard criticises Mark’s efforts not once but twice, and Mark successfully helps a chatty old lady withdraw twenty pounds from the cash machine. Mark enjoyed talking to the lady so much that he’s almost tempted to say he’s actually had quite a decent day, but then the phone on his desk rings again.

Mark picks up in his best customer service voice. It makes him sound like the nicest, most considerate young man in the universe — even more so than usual!

‘Observer’s Bank, Mark Owen speaking. How may I help you?’

‘Hello?’

‘. . . Hello?’

‘Is this Piers?’

‘No? It’s Mark from Observer’s Bank . . .’

‘Piers? My dear grandson, is that you? You sound so tired, bless you. Have you been sleeping enough? You’ve not been sleeping enough, have you? You poor soul, always so hard at work . . .’

It doesn’t take Mark very long to figure out what’s going on. Based on the caller’s voice, he’s talking to someone who’s going on a bit — possibly a confused grandfather who’s trying to get in touch with his grandson or something. Ling, one of the interns, once went through the exact same thing a couple of months ago and inadvertently spent two hours on the phone talking to an eighty-year-old man about his Geraniums. (It was a good thing _she_ picked up, too, for if Richard had gotten in touch with the confused grandfather he would probably have convinced him to part with his inheritance.)

As ever, Mark becomes Politeness itself. He doesn’t hang up: instead, he attempts to help the caller as well as he can. He may not ever be able to satisfy Richard, but he knows he’s good at this stuff.

‘There’s no Piers here, Sir,’ Mark reiterates calmly. As well as sounding like the nicest man in the universe, he also sounds like he has the patience of a saint. ‘You’re speaking with Mark from Observer’s Bank. You must have dialled the wrong number, Sir. Would you like me to help you figure out what went wrong?’

‘Piers? Is that you? You sound so different . . .’

Mark briefly pauses the conversation to imagine the man he’s talking to. He pictures someone with a long beard and a sort of weathered sailor cap. In his mind, the man is sat in a large, lush garden that he’s been working on ever since he retired five years ago. ‘No, it’s Mark Owen, Sir. You have dialled a bank. If you could please tell me who you’re trying to reach, Sir, then I might be able to help you out with me trustworthy phonebook.’

‘Help? Help me out with what, Piers? Don’t you want to talk to your grandfather anymore?’

Mark’s too kind to hang up the phone on this obviously very confused pensioner, so the conversation goes on like this for another ten minutes. It’s not a particularly unpleasant interval, but it does become rather complicated when a new customer, a woman in her twenties, joins Mark at his desk. Stephanie has disappeared to the back of the building to smoke a cigarette, so Mark suddenly has to multi-task asking the new arrival what she’s here for and explaining to the pensioner that he’s not talking to “Piers” but to Mark Owen from the local bank. It is quite a confusing moment for everyone involved.

‘One moment, please, Madam —’ Mark tells the customer in the lobby. ‘No, Sir, my name’s not Piers —’ Mark tells the confused grandpa on the phone. ‘You want a credit card, Madam? —’ Again, to the customer. ‘Sir, I think you may have dialled the wrong number —’ To the grandpa. ‘Please take a seat in the lobby, Madam, I’ll be with you in a second — Sir, I don’t know who Nanna Agatha is so I can’t help you with that, Sir — Madam, there are some very nice brochures about credit cards just behind you if you’d like to do a bit of reading — No, I’m pretty sure I’m not your grandson, Sir. Nanna Agatha is dead? Oh dear, I’m so sorry, Sir . . .’ and so on.

In his own mind, Mark thinks he’s doing a top job. There’s something very satisfying and triumphant about assisting two customers at the same time that makes him feel like he’s become a Successful Young Adult. Before this moment, he was just a newbie to the world of customer service; now, he’s a proper Man. He might even be able to ask for a pay rise and afford his guitar a little sooner.

Alas: Mark doesn’t look quite as successful in the real world. To Richard Toole, who enters the lobby whilst Mark’s on the phone with the pensioner, it looks as if Mark is deliberately ignoring a customer in favour of a _private phone call_ , one of the worst offences in the banking world.

‘Owen!’ Richard’s eyes flick to the woman in the lobby, then to Mark. He hasn’t yet noticed that fellow colleague Stephanie has foolishly left her duty in favour of having a cigarette outside. ‘Shouldn’t you be helping that woman over there?’

‘I _am_ ,’ Mark tells Richard, his hand covering the receiver of the phone so that the pensioner won’t hear him, ‘but I have a granddad on the phone who thinks I’m his grandson and I’m trying to help _him_ too. I’m multi-tasking, you know,’ he adds very proudly, like helping two customers at the same time is the most productive he’s ever been.

Conveniently, though, the only parts of Mark’s explanation that reaches Richard’s ears are “granddad” and “grandson”.

‘ _You’re talking to your granddad_?’

Richard’s angry face turns very red and tomato-like. Behind his back, a flustered Stephanie slips back into position at her desk. She flips open a book about financial economy and holds it up, upside down, to create the impression that she’s been at her desk along.

‘What did I say about answering the phones at our desks, Owen?’

Mark doesn’t understand. In the background, he briefly glimpses Stephanie’s head popping up behind the cover of her book, watching Richard as he proceeds to lecture Mark. ‘I don’t know what you mean, Richard.’

‘Yes, you do,’ Richard answers without any affection, alternately glaring at Mark and the female customer in the lobby. ‘I told you about this on your first day, remember? Or have you forgotten the rules already? You haven’t _forgotten_ , have you, Owen?’

Mark’s mind goes blank. A wave of panic sweeps over him. He can vaguely remember Richard telling him that employees aren’t allowed to take private calls at work, but he isn’t having a private phone call. He’s helping a customer, which is _what he’s here for_.

‘I know you once told me that we’re not allowed to have private calls, but—’

‘Exactly! Private phone calls aren’t allowed, Owen,’ Richard says in his most patronising voice. He crosses his arms, looking smug. ‘Now, are you going to hang up on your granddad or do you want me to tell my father you’ve been _ignoring your responsibilities again_?’

‘But it isn’t a private phone call,’ Mark insists. He can feel himself turning pink when he sees the female customer in the lobby looking at him like he’s some sort of helpless puppy. ‘I’m only trying to—’

Richard cuts Mark’s sentence short by slamming down his fist on the desk so hard that Mark utters a yelp of alarm. A large pile of brochures topples over and lands on the floor. It’s a dangerous loss of temper, and Richard knows it: conscious of the female customer still sat in the lobby, Richard quickly straightens his jacket and gives the lady his most charming smile.

‘So sorry about that, madam,’ he chuckles. ‘God knows what I’m like when I haven’t had any coffee.’

The woman just stares at her handbag.

With that more or less dealt with, Richard gives Mark another withering look, hands on hips, nose in the air. By now, Mark has gone as white as a sheet of paper. His trembling left hand still covers the receiver of the phone as if to protect the old pensioner from the awful conversation he’s in the middle of.

Mark doesn’t know that the man he _thinks_ is a pensioner has long hung up.

‘I’m giving you a choice here, Owen,’ Richard says blackly. He lowers his voice; it makes him sound even more intimidating than ever. ‘Either hang up and pick up those brochures or risk being fired. It’s your call.’

In a brief flash of bravery, Mark imagines himself standing up to Richard. He sits straighter, crosses his arms and gives Richard such a foul look that his co-worker crumples and vanishes in front of him, allowing Mark to grab his things and saunter out of the bank, never to be seen again.

In reality, Mark has to blink away tears as he’s forced to end the phone call and pick up the pile of brochures on the floor. Both Stephanie and the female customer offer to help, but Mark flicks them away with a shaking hand. He wordlessly picks up every single brochure by himself until he’s red in the face and Richard happily stomps away, satisfied that the sound of Mark trying to swallow his tears is all there is.

***

A week later, on a rainy Friday, an exhausted, rain-soaked Mark arrives late at work because his bus was delayed. After he’s shaken off his umbrella at the door and taken off his scarf, Mark casually tries to sneak into the building without anyone noticing him.

It’s pointless. Richard “accidentally” bumps into Mark in the corridor to the lobby, and he spends the rest of the day teasing Mark for not having a driver’s licence. (Richard, of course, owns quite an expensive Mercedes and would rather die than having to lower himself to public transport.) Stephanie later informs Mark that Richard had been waiting for him in the corridor all morning.

Mark desperately tries to shrug it all off by putting all his time and energy into his customers, but it’s difficult to stir up any energy when you haven’t slept. Mark was up all night replaying the previous week’s arguments with Richard, and as a result, he slept only for an hour, if even that.

All Mark has to do is picture Richard and his strict, busy father, and he feels like the unhappiest lad in the world. This isn’t _work_ — this is beginning to look like torture, pushing him to the limit till he breaks.

Today, Mark breaks.

As ever, it’s a testing shift. The lobby is full of everyday, practical activity. The cash machine in the corner has given up the ghost, and for some reason, every single customer thinks Mark must have something to do with it. One woman even claims that Mark should give her a thirty-pound compensation for not being able to withdraw twenty quid out of the wall, and Mark politely tries to explain that cash machines generally don’t work that way. She storms out of the building with a trail of dust in her wake.

The problems with the cash machine are almost enough to deplete Mark of all his remaining energy. Everywhere in the lobby, there are people who _want_ something from him. One lady has lost her glasses and thinks Mark must have stolen them from her when she came round last week. Another woman wants to open three separate bank accounts. A little while later, Mark’s bombarded with a dozen questions about mortgages.

Mark tries his hardest to politely answer every single question that is thrown at him, but he’s finding it harder and harder to stay awake. He feels tired and hungry. He desperately wants to take a break, but he knows that if he so much gets up from his desk Richard will immediately pop up from behind an office plant and punch him or something.  

Instead, Mark stays. His tummy rumbles. Across the lobby, Stephanie looks as knackered as he feels. Mark briefly thinks about trying to get her attention by hazarding an off-limits friendly wave (small talk between employees is strictly prohibited), but then the phone on his desk rings again.

Still feeling from what happened the last time he answered the phone, Mark reluctantly picks up. He quickly makes sure Richard isn’t around before introducing himself in the nicest voice he can manage. Just ahead, a middle-aged woman sees that he’s busy and thankfully makes a beeline for Stephanie’s desk.

‘Observer’s Bank, Mark Owen speaking. How may I help you?’

‘Hello, Mr Owen, this is John Lipton,’ the caller says. He sounds vaguely familiar, but Mark’s too tired to find this suspicious. ‘Am I speaking to the customer services department?’

‘You are, Sir,’ Mark politely replies. ‘What can I help you with?’

‘I would like to set up a bank account, please.’

Mark’s face brightens. His fatigue begins to lift. Finally, a serious request and not an ageing pensioner! He can do this.

‘What type of account would that be, Sir?’ Mark asks. He feels the same prickle of excitement he did when he was helping a successful young entrepreneur set up another bank account earlier.

‘Just an ordinary savings account, I think, Mark.’

‘That’s a very good choice, Sir,’ Mark says as he selects the appropriate paperwork from a large pile on his desk and starts filling it in. ‘Our saving accounts are very good, you know. You get a free debit card as well these days. Have you had a debit card before? I love debit cards. I use mine all the time now.’

‘Oh, debit cards are great, aren’t they?’ the customer agrees. ‘It’s lovely that you offer them free of charge. It’s just what I needed to hear on this dark, dark day.’

Mark’s been stuck at his desk for so long that it’s the first time he truly notices what the weather is like outside. With the rain pouring down the heavy, grey skies above, it’s quite dark indeed; so much so that you’d almost be tricked into thinking it is night rather than day.

‘Oh, it is, isn’t it, Sir?’ Mark agrees, warming to the subject even though he ought to be talking about very boring things like bank accounts and debit cards. ‘I wish it were summer, you know. I love summer. I always get a little sad when it’s dark outside. I think I’d feel a lot better if it stopped raining and I could have a walk in the sun.’

‘Tell me about it, son. I feel like I haven’t seen the sun for weeks, it’s always so dark. I’d booked a holiday to the Maldives to get away from it, actually, but then I broke me hip . . . slipped on a banana peel and fell down the stairs . . . ‘t’is a miracle I’m even alive.’

Mark makes a sad face even though the customer can’t see him. The thought of the customer breaking his hip so suddenly makes him feel awful inside. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Sir. Are you quite all right now?’

‘Oh, I am now, Mark. Life goes on, don’t it? There’s no use sulkin’ about me broken hip . . . besides, I have me lovely wife to take care of me.’

‘That’s lovely, Sir,’ Mark breathes in awe, delighted that he’s finally having a conversation with a proper person and not a confused pensioner. ‘You must love her very much.’

The caller snickers, but he successfully covers it up with a cough that Mark doesn’t hear. ‘I do, son. I do. So very much.’

‘ _Aw_.’

Across the lobby, Mark sees Richard raising his eyebrows at him for daring to smile during a phone call. Knowing that Richard doesn’t like it when members of staff attempt to have small-talk with their customers (or anyone really), Mark quickly tries to tries to get the conversation back on track.

‘Anyway, whose name should I write on the paperwork, Sir?’ Mark goes on in a more serious tone. He has often been lectured for not getting to the point by his co-workers. ‘You said you wanted a savings account, didn’t you? The one with a free debit card?’

‘Ah — right. Of course. I did say that, yes. And the name’s Thumper, son.’

‘Thumper. All right.’ Mark diligently writes everything down. ‘And your first name, Sir?’

‘No first name, just Thumper.’

‘But I need a first name.’

‘That _is_ his first name.’

Mark frowns. He reads through the paperwork in front of him. He was convinced the man on the phone was opening an account for _himself_ and not some sort of family member. Has he missed out on an important piece of information because he was too busy chatting away about the weather?

‘Sorry, Sir, but could you repeat who we’re opening an account for exactly?’

‘Thumper.’

The name rings a slight bell, but Mark’s mind gone blank. A dozen questions run through his head. Who _is_ this man, and who is Thumper? And why does Mark have an eerie feeling that he’s talked to him before?

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Sir, but who is Thumper to you?’

Mark’s pretty sure he can hear the other caller snicker, which is quite odd because this is obviously a very serious conversation. Mark hopes he hasn’t overstepped.

‘He’s Thumper,’ the caller replies doggedly.

‘Yes, but who is he?’ Mark asks, to which the customer snorts as if he has been holding in a laugh for ages. ‘Is he a brother or a friend or—’

‘HE’S ME RABBIT, YOU TWAT!’

It happens quite abruptly. Mark can hear the caller chortle into his ear. A moment later, Mark’s met with a loud, sharp tone that forces him to remove the phone from his ear. He stares at the phone in his hand for a few moments before realising that he’s just been stitched up — and quite successfully, too.

He turns red. He feels shame and frustration wash all over him. He feels shame because he fell for the prank in the first place; frustration because the call means that he’s just wasted precious company time. Mark knows that _he_ isn’t the person who made the call, but Richard will blame him for anything. This won’t make him look good at all.

Sensing that he might get in serious trouble for falling the prank, Mark anxiously tries to get rid of the paperwork he just wasted five minutes filling in. He makes a movement to tear the pages from their staples and throw them in the shredder next to his desk, but Richard’s already on him like a hawk. He appears out of nowhere, snatches the papers out of Mark’s hands and gives them a pointed look. He strains his eyes to make sense of Mark’s round, illegible handwriting.

‘What’s this, Owen?’

‘It’s – it’s paperwork,’ Mark stammers, not liking the way Richard’s looking at him at all.

‘Why are you trying to get rid of it?’

The concept of lying to Richard about the prank call briefly springs to mind, but Mark’s too tired to lie. He doesn’t have it in him anymore. Richard will get mad at him either way.

‘I’m trying to get rid of it because the person who asked me to fill it in wanted to open a bank account for his rabbit,’ Mark politely explains, with an emphasis on ‘rabbit’.

But Richard sneers ferociously. He looks displeased at Mark’s attitude. ‘And you thought it’d be a good idea if you hung up on him, did you?’

Mark chuckles. Then his face falls. Richard is being completely serious.

‘He — the customer — _he_ hung up on _me_ ,’ Mark tries to explain. ‘It was a _prank call._ I was being pranked,’ Mark reiterates when he sees that the words “prank call” have had zero effect on Richard’s face at all.

‘How do you know it was a prank call?’ Richard asks as much.

Mark stands his ground with stubborn but shaky resolve. ‘Well, he was trying to open an account for a rabbit, which, you know, is quite unusual . . .’

‘And you denied him that?’ Richard asks witheringly. ‘You denied a customer his basic right to open a savings account with us?’

‘Yes, no, but —’

‘You know the rules, Owen,’ Richard snaps. He gives the papers in his hands another dismissive look and haphazardly throws them back on Mark’s desk. Half of them end up on the floor. ‘We do whatever the customers want us to do. That includes doing things that might take us _more time than usual_.’

‘But it’s a _rabbit_ , Richard,’ Mark presses anxiously. He looks at Stephanie’s desk for help, but his co-worker isn’t there. He feels like he’s going mad for thinking that it’s obviously ludicrous that an animal would want to open up a savings account. ‘Rabbits don’t have money . . .’

‘I don’t care if people want us to open an account for their _toes_ , Owen. If that man calls back you better _help_ him.’

Then Richard lowers his voice. He leans over Mark’s desk, forcing Mark to make himself even smaller than usual. He suddenly feels like he’s the tiniest person in the world, about to be trampled on by a person who doesn’t even know his first name.

But Richard knows everything. He has eyes and ears everywhere, which is what makes his next threat feel so terribly real.  

‘You do _want_ to be able to afford those girly music lessons of yours, don’t you, Owen?’

Mark’s heart skips a beat. He feels his cheeks go red. He stares at his lap as though he was caught in the act doing something he shouldn’t have.

The fact that Richard somehow _knows_ that he’s saving up for music lessons rids Mark of the last ounce of control and independence he had here. Just one silly mistake, and Richard could stop Mark from ever being able to afford his dream. He could fire Mark before he even gets his first paycheck.

Richard’s voice cuts into Mark’s thoughts like a knife. ‘Owen. Did you hear what I just told you?’

Mark moves his head into a grave nod. He visibly trembles, making himself feel even weaker and smaller than ever. ‘Yes, Richard. I’m sorry, Richard.’

‘Sorry for _what_?’

Mark feels tears prick the back of his eyes. Outside, the sky is heavy with the promise of more rain to fall. ‘I’m sorry for not doing my job.’

‘ _And_?’

A silence fills the space between them. Mark hates himself for having to say something he knows isn’t true.

‘ _And_?’ Richard demands with a fierce, withering look.

‘And I promise I’ll call the customer back,’ Mark lies. He swallows his tears.  

That’ll do. ‘Good. Now get back to work, Owen.’

Richard saunters away with a smug grin on his face, leaving Mark to stare uneasily after him. By the time Richard’s reached the staff room, more customers have arrived in the lobby.

They all want to use the broken cash machine.

***

It’s an hour to closing time. The bank, usually husting and bustling with customers demanding to be given brochures about loans, credit cards or special saver rates, is completely empty apart from its staff. Mark has nothing do.

The warm air of the portable heater next to Mark’s desk streams comfortably against his legs, but he doesn’t feel warm at all. Whilst the welcome peace and quiet may be a breath of fresh air after his scary arguments with Richard, Mark would rather be busy. He’d rather be _outside_ , in the cold. That way, he won’t keep looking at the office clock that’s ticking away so slowly that its hands might as well have stopped.

Mark isn’t the only person who has nothing to do. Across the lobby, Stephanie’s filing her nails again. Next to her, a trainee is playing Solitaire on his desk computer. Richard has disappeared to the staff room to read a comic book. Every now and then, he strolls back into the lobby to make sure everyone is doing their jobs.

Mark, meanwhile, prefers to keep himself busy by writing in the blue exercise book that he carries everywhere. The lyrics he writes are just childish, uncomplicated ideas about potential lovers, happiness and neighbourhood bullies, but he likes them regardless. (At his next music lesson at the community centre, Mark’s going to show the handsome instructor his lyrics and ask for feedback like he has done for the past two sessions. Last time, the instructor praised Mark for his melodies and made him turn absolutely scarlet.)

Of course: Mark can’t write in his exercise book all the time. Every time Richard comes round to check in on his colleagues, Mark has to slide his precious notebook underneath a stack of papers and pretend to be reading a very boring magazine about the stock exchange. It’s only when Richard is completely out of sight that the exercise book returns again.

Over the past fifty minutes, Mark’s written two songs that way.

At half five, Mark reaches a creative block. He’s just written a set of unimaginative lyrics about walking his dog when the phone rings and he and Stephanie both start. The trainee, who has probably uttered three words all day, doesn’t seem to notice the ringing: his eyes don’t flick away from his desk computer for a single second.

At first, Mark gives the phone a long, ponderous stare. Why is it always _his_ phone that rings? It’s never the phone at _Stephanie’s_ desk. Or the one in the staff room. In fact, he doesn’t think any of the phones in the bank have ever rung at all. It’s like the universe is intentionally trying to drive him up the bloody wall with phone calls he’s destined to get in trouble for.

Then again — the universe could also be trying to tell him something. It could all be a big test of kindness and resolve; of staying kind even when the people around him are some of the worst people he’s ever met.

If it is, then he’s about to fail that test spectacularly.

‘Observer’s Bank, Mark Owen speaking,’ Mark sighs into the receiver. He pinches the bridge between his nose and tries to sound less tired than he actually feels. ‘How may I help you?’

‘Hello, is this the local pizzeria?’

‘What?’

‘I would like to order a pizza salami, please, with extra pepperoni and cheese—’

Mark feels instantly awake. He sits straighter. He closes his exercise book. The hands on the clock in the lobby start ticking again.

There’s no doubt about it — this is the same guy who wanted to open a bank account for his rabbit. It’s the same guy who pretended to be an ageing pensioner, and he’s probably behind that odd silent call that Mark had to answer last week too. It was all the same person!

Usually, Mark wouldn’t mind a prank as long as it doesn’t hurt anyone. But this guy? Who nearly lost Mark his job because Richard thought he was having a private phone call?

Mark does not like this guy at all. After all, if it hadn’t been for this guy trying to set up a bank account for a _pet_ , Mark would not have been shouted at by Richard. If it hadn’t been for this prankster pretending to be a confused _grandfather_ , Mark would have gone home feeling happy last week rather than lying awake at night, worried about his job.

Something inside of Mark breaks. He’s charged up by a negative sort of energy, itching at his insides. He trades his kind customer voice for something far more dangerous: ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, all right, but this is the third time you’ve phoned this number and it’s not funny!’ Mark says. His voice is shaking. ‘I’m trying very hard to do me job here but I can’t with _you_ constantly pretending to be someone else. I wish you’d stop.’

The caller pretends to have no idea what Mark’s talking about. ‘What do you mean, “Third time you’ve phoned this number”? Am I not connected with the local pizzeria? You do _do_ pepperoni pizzas, don’t you? If not I’ll just order a pizza Margherita with extra mozzarella and onion . . .’

This obvious jibe only makes Mark feel unhappier. He suddenly finds that the phone is shaking inside his hand. ‘Please don’t do that.’

‘Do _what_?’

‘Pretend that you haven’t prank called me before. It’s not very nice of you. You should stop before – before I call the police for – for obstruction or _something,_ ’ Mark adds, not quite managing to sound as menacing as he’d wished.

The caller snorts. He sounds younger than he did before — maybe sixteen years old. He’s not such an old pensioner after all, then. ‘Are you serious? It’s just a joke, mate. Jeez. Lighten up.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but it’s not a very good one.’ Feeling like he’s being watched, Mark looks over his shoulder to make sure Stephanie and the trainee aren’t listening in on him before he whispers, quite dramatically, ‘Me co-worker nearly threatened to report me to me boss just cos I was on the phone with you!’

‘Well, don’t pick up then!’

‘I can’t if you keep phoning me, can I?’

‘Not my problem.’

Mark gives a stunned laugh of amazement. ‘Wow. Oh dear. _You’re_ the one behind the prank calls, aren’t you? That makes it _your_ problem. Don’t you have any mates you can phone instead or something? Don’t you have a _life_ to get back to?’

It’s meant to be a fairly meaningless comment, but the words don’t leave Mark’s mouth that way. An awkward silence falls between him and the stranger, and there’s only one thing that could mean. The silence speaks volumes.

The prankster doesn’t have any mates. 

The real, kind, caring Mark Owen would ordinarily have found this quite sad. He would have found a reason to apologise to the lad and perhaps even gone out of his way to meet up and become friends, but not now. He’s far too tired. No: this time, a dormant, untouched part of Mark Owen is about to bleed out of his pores and eliminate every single sense of sympathy he might otherwise have felt.

‘Well, I’m not surprised you haven’t got any mates,’ Mark scoffs dismissively. An acid, unfamiliar tone creeps into his voice. ‘You don’t even care that there are people who might get in trouble because of how you keep treating them. You just keep going with our silly little pranks till it drives people up the wall and they nearly get fired for something they didn’t even sign up for. That’s not a _prank_ — it’s just cruel. You’re cruel.’

The caller tries to interject, but it’s too late now. Mark is too overwhelmingly annoyed by the prankster to stop.

‘No. Don’t,’ Mark chides, sounding an awful lot like Richard when he’s mad. Similarly, Mark starts lecturing the young prankster like an annoyed, angry parent. ‘You probably think that phoning random people is really funny, but it’s not, you know. It’s not funny at all. It makes people look like they’re not doing their jobs, and if it looks like they’re not doing their jobs then their co-workers will get very mad at them and keep them up at night. I haven’t even been able to sleep because my co-worker got mad at me for the prank call _you_ did . . .’

‘I _swear_ I never intended the pranks that way,’ the prankster desperately tries to point out.

‘Well, it’s too late now.’ Here, the words catch in Mark’s throat. He _knows_ that he sounds unnecessarily angry and that the “real” him wouldn’t dream of ever losing his temper like this, but he doesn’t know how to stop. If he takes back his words, he’s only going to sound weak. He goes on, ‘I hope that when you hang up you’ll have an absolutely terrible day and everyone around you will see how awful and silly you are. Thank you. Goodbye.’

Mark puts down the phone with such a loud _clang_ that it makes even the quiet trainee look up from his desk computer. Realising that he must look uncharacteristically upset, Mark flashes his co-worker a curt smile and quickly starts stacking up a pile of paperwork to give everyone the impression that he’s completely all right, thank you.

But he’s not all right at all. He feels _awful._

Mark’s never spoken to someone in that manner. He’s never intentionally been unkind. This is nothing like him, and yet he couldn’t feel better. He feels misplaced pride wash all over him. He feels strangely cold. He told an annoying prankster to leave him alone, and it’s the toughest, hardest thing he’s done all month. If Mark can stand up to a total stranger like that, he reckons he can do anything, from leaving his job to telling Richard he thinks he’s a bully —

But does it really have to make him feel so bad?

♪

The disconnect tone is still ringing in Robbie’s ear. His thoughts leap wildly as he tries to reflect on what he got wrong. He’s used to people going off on him when they find out they’ve just been pranked, but usually that makes him feel proud. People angrily hanging up on him – or, in most cases, eventually _bursting out laughing_ – is a sign that he did something right. The jokes landed.

But this time, nothing went right at all. The first three calls were pretty good, but the last one was absolutely disastrous. He suddenly had a complete stranger telling him he’s a terrible person who doesn’t deserve to have any mates, and it _hurt_. It felt as though every insecurity he’s ever had was magnified and laid out in front of him.

For it is true, Rob doesn’t have any friends. Most of the people he knows are the strangers he meets on a night out clubbing, and he’s stopped going to school so he hardly sees his classmates anymore. He doesn’t even _want_ to, really. He doesn’t care about classmates and school and getting good results for his exams. He just wants to make the world disappear and have the final laugh in the meantime.

He didn’t even dare doing the prank calls, at first. He was scared that he’d genuinely upset someone or that he’d unintentionally order a product he couldn’t afford. Then the laughs started coming – those gentle, appreciative chuckles as soon as people realised they’d been stitched up – and Rob started doing it more often. He turned it into a hobby, if you can call it that. He’d choose a random number from one of the phone books he’d collected during his travels and call it all week until the illusion faded. Sometimes, people even thanked him for making their day.

With Observer’s Bank, though, it seems there was never an illusion at all. People usually like his prank calls, but not this guy. Not Mark Owen. He seemed terribly upset, this guy, and that was never Rob’s intention. He wants to make people _laugh_ , not make them angry.

He doesn’t even know _why_ Mark was angry. He sounded pretty nice when Rob was pretending to be opening a savings account, and when Robbie claimed to be looking for his grandson Mark couldn’t be nicer. He was politeness and patience personified — so much so that Rob almost forgot he was actually supposed to be pranking him.

In fact, Mark was _so_ nice and kind and _wonderful_ that Rob started enjoying talking to him a lot more than he should have done, and that’s what makes their previous call so confusing. It’s the one thing Rob doesn’t get. Why would a nice guy like that suddenly lose his temper like that?

It’s a question that has made Rob stare at the phone in despair for over an hour. He wonders if he should call Mark back and apologise. He _wants_ to, but he doesn’t know why. He’s never felt anything like it. He generally doesn’t give a fuck about the people he’s stitching up as long as he makes them laugh, and yet he hasn’t stopped thinking about Mark Owen all day.  

♪

It’s closing time. In the distance, the clock strikes six o’clock. The lobby looks like it usually does at this time of day: empty and uninviting. It’s still raining outside. If he concentrates, Mark can hear all the little noises of an oncoming rainstorm: the door rattling, the rain pelting against a window and the wind howling around the block of shops. It’s so dark outside that you’d almost think it’s in the middle of the night, not six in the evening.

Having just spent the greater part of eight hours helping customers and answering prank calls, Mark feels completely depleted of energy. He doesn’t even acknowledge his co-workers when he walks into the staff room to put on his coat and scarf. Moody, he just snatches his coat from the clothes hangers on the wall without saying a single word.

Usually the chattiest person around, Mark hasn’t had it in him to be kind and social for about a week. He can put on a polite, happy face for the customers in the lobby, but not for his colleagues. Even his relationship with his family has suffered; once Mark gets home in an hour, drenched by rain, he’ll dump his bag in the hallway and sprint to his room as quickly as his tired feet will carry him, alone.

He stopped telling his mum about work a week ago.

Similarly, Mark’s co-workers don’t talk much either. In the staff room, they exchange brief pleasantries about the weather before directing their eyes back to the windows and watching the raindrops chase each other. Everyone seems to be waiting for the storm to pass, but not Mark. He’d rather be swept away by the wind than stay in the staff room for another second.

Mark’s just buttoned up his coat when Richard Toole sticks his large head through the staff room door. Everyone in the room suddenly sits up as if to brace themselves for an inevitable lecture about sales figures, customer service, prank calls, debit cards or loans, but the only person Richard turns to is Mark. Everyone else breathes a sigh of relief.

‘Owen. There’s a call for you on Line One.’

Mark wraps his white winter scarf around his neck. His eyes flick at the clock in the corner. ‘But it’s ten past six. We’re closed.’

‘He says it’s a mate,’ Richard shrugs. ‘Which is funny, cos I didn’t know you actually had any.’

Mark feels guilt and shame twist the insides of his stomach. He’s reminded of saying almost those exact same words to the prankster, and instead of feeling proud Mark feels bad again. Could the person on Line One be the prankster himself, asking to be forgiven? And if it is, why does that thought give him so much hope?

‘Are you sure it’s a friend of mine?’ Mark finds his voice laced with expectation. Why does he suddenly want to talk to the prankster again? ‘I don’t remember ever giving one of them the number of the bank.’

Richard looks at Mark haughtily. ‘You must have, cos this is already second private phone call you’ve had in two weeks. You know _, the type of call you’re not allowed to have_?’

Mark is forced into silence. The only sound is that of the branches of a tree whipping against one of the windows in the staff room. His co-workers all look at him like they desperately want him to lose his temper for the first time ever.  

As ever, though, niceness gets the better of him. Mark doesn’t bother arguing even though he very much would like to remind Richard that last week’s “private phone call” was actually a prankster with a bad sense of humour

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t be having private phone calls at work.’ Mark gives the ends of his scarf a hard tug that makes the material press, softly, against his throat. ‘I’ll go over to me desk now and tell me mate to stop ringing me, shall I?’

Mark doesn’t wait for Richard to give him a patronising look. He slips back into the lobby with his coat and scarf still on and heads to his desk. Helpfully, Richard’s already turned off the lights of the lobby, meaning that Mark nearly stumbles over a stapler on the floor when he picks up the phone.

‘ _Ouch —_ Observer’s Bank. Hello.’ Mark’s too tired to reiterate his usual introduction.

‘Mark? Is that you?’

Mark feels a strange pang in his chest, and not just because he’s scared of being made fun of again. He was right — it’s the prankster.

And he sounds nicer than ever.

‘ _Please_ don’t hang up on me,’ the prankster begs. He sounds even younger than he did during the previous phone call, completing the contradictory feeling of guilt and curiosity in Mark’s tummy. ‘I promise I’m not havin’ you on again. I just wanted to say sorry.’

Mark feels so conflicted by his various emotions that he doesn’t reply at first. He doesn’t know whether to hang up and forget that he ever told someone _to get a life_ or chain himself to his phone, curious as to why a complete stranger would ever make his heart race like this.

‘Mark? Are you there? I really wanted to apologise for me behaviour earlier, mate.’

‘Why?’ Mark croaks. It’s a genuine question, not a personal attack. Why apologise when Mark was so obviously in the wrong earlier?  

‘Well — me prank call obviously really upset you and I’m not used to that happening,’ the prankster says. He loses himself in his own train of thought for a moment, just apologising over and over again. ‘I clearly got you in trouble with your boss by doing so and that was never my intention. You had every right to go off on me earlier. I’m really, really sorry, Mark. I should have thought about it beforehand, but I didn’t. I’m a twat. Sorry.’

Mark’s heart skips a beat just hearing the prankster speak. He doesn’t know why. It’s like something about the prankster’s voice has touched a part of Mark that he doesn’t want to admit he has; a sort of curiosity for someone he’s never even seen. It’s as if the absence of having a face to look at makes him all the more curious: who are you? Why do you phone people up? What do you look like and why do I want to get to know you all of a sudden?

But most of all, Mark’s still reeling from the shock that the prankster has actually bothered to call him back.

‘If you know your prank call upset me, then why bother calling me again?’

‘I just want to make people laugh,’ the prankster says. ‘You know what I mean? I prank call people cos I want to make them laugh and maybe make a new mate in the process, but I keep gettin’ it wrong, I guess.’

His eyes having gotten used to the dark by now, Mark sinks into his desk chair. His voice sounds like it does usually; soft and kind. ‘What do you mean, getting it wrong?’

‘Making mates,’ the stranger explains. ‘Like you said, I don’t have any mates. Not anywhere. Everyone just leaves me behind or gets sick of me, and I guess I try to make meself feel better by pranking people and making them laugh. Deep down I always hope it’s enough for people to call me back and want to become mates and stuff, but they never do. They just hang up and forget about me once the laughter dies out. And now I feel shit cos I unintentionally upset someone. I’m really sorry.’

Mark, who has been listening with a grave, worried look on his face, feels for the guy. Not only has this stranger phoned back with a genuine apology, he’s also taken the courage to admit that Mark was right about him being a bit lonely. Clearly, the prank calls are the lad’s attempt to reach out to people — something he clearly isn’t capable of in real life because of how difficult he finds it to connect.

In a way, Mark can relate: he spends ages talking to ageing customers at his desk because he hasn’t bonded with anyone at work either. His co-workers aren’t mates, they’re just people. He’ll probably feel out of step with his colleagues for as long as he works here.

But how on Earth do you respond to a complete stranger telling you one of their darkest secrets? Do you sympathise with them? Call them back? Meet up with them? Forget them in case the lad turns out to be some sort of dangerous 40-year-old predator? Mark doesn’t know. He really doesn’t.

For the most part, Mark’s moral compass is telling him to be kind. To apologise and forgive. It’s telling Mark to ask for the prankster’s name and offer to meet up, regardless of how old he is. They could even become friends.

Then again, Mark Owen inherently wants to be nice, period. He desperately wants to be kind to people — not because doing so will make _him_ feel good but because he wants other people to feel good too. It’s what everyone deserves, whether they’re prank callers or not. It’s how he was brought up by his parents.

He’s made up his mind. He’s going to be nice.

Mark is about to tell the prankster that he thought the pranks were actually quite good when the sound of footsteps startle him. He sees Richard entering the lobby and stopping to see what he’s doing, and every intention to be nice leaves him. It trickles out of him like a cold rush down his body.

It’s as if seeing Richard has bewitched him. It enchants Mark into putting on a colder voice. He suddenly forgets he ever had a nice side and pretends to be just as unkind as his colleague.

‘Well, thanks for takin’ the effort to call back, I guess,’ Mark says without any affection at all. ‘That’s very nice of you.’

Mark knows how cold he must have sounded, but he doesn’t want Richard to accuse him of having another private call at work. And he’s not. This is just an ordinary conversation. Or rather, that’s what he’s telling himself. What Mark refuses to admit is that he actually thinks the prankster sounds like a rather nice guy. He even sounds cute, in a way. _Intriguing._ In a universe where Mark doesn’t work at a bank and Richard Toole doesn’t exist, the prankster is probably the type of guy Mark would fall for.  

Unfortunately, this is not that universe.

‘So we’re cool, Mark? You’ll forgive me?’

The prankster sounds a little bit desperate, making Mark’s tummy aches with guilt. His thoughts are in a big tangle. Like Mark, the prankster sounds like he wants a lot more than just being forgiven, but he doesn’t want to get in trouble again either. He’s so impossibly tired of being here that he can’t find it in him to be warm or kind. He’d rather make Richard believe that he has no emotional ties to this guy at all. And he doesn’t. Why would he? This lad is just a stranger who makes his heart flutter for all the wrong reasons.

‘Just don’t call this number again, all right?’ Mark warns into the receiver as he meets Richard’s watchful eye across the lobby. ‘Don’t even _think_ about it.’

By now, Richard has moved closer. He has carefully avoided the staplers and paperwork on the floor and has taken a seat in the lobby, his arms crossed. And Mark feels terrible just thinking it, but Richard looks absolutely triumphant. _Proud._ The angrier Mark sounds, the more pleased Richard looks, and the less scared Mark feels. If he has to pretend to be angry so that Richard will stop bullying him, then so be it.

Mark layers his words with more anger. It makes him feel powerful. ‘You hear me, mate? Don’t bother me at work again. Ever. I’m sick of you constantly getting me into trouble and ruining my day.’  

The prankster sounds like he’s panicking. ‘Mark, _please,_ mate — if only you let me explain —’

Outside, the rain has turned into a thunderstorm. The rain begins to pelt the front entrance in torrents. People with umbrellas pass the bank in a hurry, all looking as miserable and sour as Mark feels. The sound of thunder can be heard just beyond, but just as loud is the desperate sound of the prankster crying in Mark’s ear; pleading, _begging_ to be forgiven.

Mark briefly considers allowing the lad to explain himself anyway, but a curt nod of Richard’s head makes him stop.

Trembling, Mark hangs up before Robbie can ever speak again.

♪

Rob turns over the newspaper clipping in his hand. He briefly considers calling the number underneath the advert for more information, but then he remembers he hasn’t used the phone for over a week. Ever since he was told off by the lad from the bank, he hasn’t touched a single dial. He doesn’t pick up the phone when it rings. He hasn’t even _looked_ at the thing; he just walks straight past it in the living room, terrified that if he so much glances at the phone he’ll get another telling-off.

The lad from the bank essentially telling him to get a life hurt Robbie in a way he could never have predicted. There’s always a possibility that people will get angry at him for pranking them, but it’s never really happened before, and it’s certainly never happened with someone Rob thought sounded like the nicest person in the universe.  

Mark Owen sounded different, in a way. Even when Robbie was pretending to be a difficult customer, Mark Owen was nice. Mark Owen showed interest. His voice was warm and kind and a lot of other things Robbie shouldn’t like about a stranger’s voice. Rob has made prank calls to over a dozen people, but they never made him feel like that. Not like Mark.

Perhaps that’s why Rob called the number so often, in the end. He didn’t just want to make Mark laugh; he wanted to enjoy talking to him in the meantime. He wanted to _get to know_ the lad, in a way. Over the course of several phone calls, Rob wanted to leave such a good impression that Mark would eventually be drawn to the _real_ Rob; the Robbie who likes football and music. The Rob who isn’t an ageing pensioner.

Then Robbie had to mess it all up with his stupid cockiness. He went too far. He dialled the number more times than he should have done, and now every desire to do another prank call has left him. He can’t get himself to do it again. He wishes he could, because he has absolutely no idea what else to do with himself.

So, instead of filling his evenings phoning up random numbers from the phone book, Rob has spent all evening staring at the newspaper clipping his mum left for him on his desk — the one about the band audition. Rob didn’t even properly look at the advert when he first saw it, but then Mark Owen happened and he got a bad grade for another exam and something drew him to the paper clipping like a magnet.

Rob _kind of_ wants to audition so he can become an entertainer like his dad and _maybe_ meet some cool folks in the process, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to audition at all. Auditioning would mean singing and dancing in a front an audience, and he’s not sure if he can ever put himself in that position again. He gained a decent amount of stage experience when he was seven or eight years old, but he can’t bear the idea of being that vulnerable _now_. Or worse, finding out he’s shit at the only thing he can see himself actually enjoying.  

Then again — what other options does he have? It’s not like he’s going to leave school with particularly impressive grades this summer. He might get a D for English if he’s lucky, but anything higher than would be a fucking miracle. What with the way his teachers keep mistreating him for mixing up his words and messing up his spelling, he can’t see himself ever passing many exams at all. If the school has failed him, he might as well fail them in return.

Back in the Williams’ living room, Rob looks at the paper cut-out again as rain continues to pour down in torrents on the roof. The paper clipping is next to the phone book: the same phone book he used for his pranks. He hasn’t looked at the phone book for over a week.

He _could_ just call the number in the advert, Rob thinks. He doesn’t even have to say that he’s seriously considering auditioning; he just wants to gather a bit more information is all. What sort of band is this guy thinking about putting together, what will their music sound like, will they actually get paid, that sort of thing. Apart from New Kids on the Block (which Rob has never listened to, thank you very much), there aren’t that many boy bands around at the moment, so he has absolutely no idea what to make of it really. If it’s all going to be saccharine pop stuff, there’s no point of a lad like him ever auditioning.    

Still — he might as well phone. Just in case he loses the newspaper cutting in the mess in the living room, Rob quickly copies the info in the advert onto a torn page from an exercise book and shoves it into the back pocket of his jeans. That way, he won’t forget about the audition.

His heart racing as if he’s about to prank call someone again, Rob nervously starts towards the table the phone is on, newspaper clipping in hand. He practices what he wants to say over and over. He wants to get it right this time. He doesn’t unintentionally want to piss someone off even though he’s just phoning someone about an audition.

Rob’s hand reaches for the receiver. He’s about to pick it up when the phone rings and he has such a fright that he almost stumbles over backwards!

‘Jesus—!’

It’s the weirdest thing ever. Here he is, about to make a call when the phone starts ringing out of itself! It’s as if Robbie and the phone are telepathically connected. Could it be the organiser of the audition himself, phoning _him_?

Probably not. The guy doesn’t even know him.

So who _else_ might be phoning the Williams household at six in the evening?

Curious and shaken, Rob puts away the newspaper clipping and picks up the phone. What with the phone not having any number recognition, Robbie picks up with a deliberately ambiguous, ‘What’s up?’

The person at the other line, male, sounds slightly confused. Rob doesn’t recognise his voice at first. ‘Um. Hello. Sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for the person who dialled this number last week?’

‘Which number?’ Rob asks cluelessly. He has genuinely no idea who he’s talking to.

‘ _This_ number,’ the stranger replies.

‘I can see that, but who am I talkin’ to?’

‘ _Oh_! Sorry. It’s Mark Owen – Mark Owen from Observer’s Bank in Manchester? I’m looking for the person who called this number four times last week. Are you his dad? You sound kinda familiar . . .’

All the colour leaves Robbie’s cheeks. He feels so light in the head that he forgets to reply, and in the conversation’s pause Mark Owen starts rambling a million different apologies.

‘I’m really sorry if I’ve dialled the wrong number,’ Mark says, sounding terribly anxious. ‘It’s just I don’t know the lad’s number and I really wanna talk to him cos I said some things I shouldn’t have last week. I’m so sorry. I hope I’m not overstepping by phoning you at teatime. I could phone again at a later time if that would be more convenient for you.’

Robbie’s voice croaks into life. He has to find the courage to speak up deep inside himself. ‘Mark. It’s me. I’m the lad who phoned.’

Mark utters a sound of realisation. ‘Is it? I didn’t recognise your voice.’

Rob lets out a nervous laugh. Painfully aware of how badly their last conversation ended, Rob has to remind himself not to reply with too much surprise and gratitude. His heart hasn’t stopped racing since Mark announced himself.

‘I didn’t recognise yours either,’ Rob admits.

‘I guess I sound a little different when I’m not talking to customers,’ Mark laughs. He sounds a little nervous still, like he’s struggling to find the words he clearly hasn’t rehearsed.

Robbie hasn’t rehearsed this call either, so they speak no more. Silence falls.

Clearly, this is quite an awkward moment for both of them: awkward for Mark because he was terribly foul the last time they spoke; awkward for Robbie because _he’s_ the one who set this all in motion in the first place. What the fuck is he supposed to say to someone who literally told him to get a life?

Thankfully, Mark makes the effort of keeping the conversation going so Robbie doesn’t have to. He stammers, with some effort, ‘So, um, I just wanted to call to see if — like I said, I feel really guilty about how I reacted last week and I just wanted to say sorry, you know. I’m really sorry if what I said hurt you. You caught me during a really bad moment at work and the way I reacted was awful. I shouldn’t have told you to never phone me again and have a terrible day and all that because I didn’t mean that. I didn’t mean that at all. I wish I could take it all back and start all over because you seem like quite a decent lad really.’

Robbie says nothing.

Mark: ‘Are you still there? I haven’t said something terrible again, have I?’

Robbie’s chest rises in a deep sigh. His left hand clutches the kitchen table so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. He doesn’t know what to say.

He _deserved_ the telling off. He _deserved_ to be told to get a life after all the prank calls he put Mark through, and yet here Mark is, apologising for something Rob can’t even blame him for.

‘Are you still there?’ Mark again.

Rob nods gravely. Then he remembers that he’s having a phone call and that Mark can’t see him. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am, mate.’

‘Did you hear what I said earlier? About me being sorry?’

‘I did, Mark, but I don’t know why you bothered, to be honest,’ Rob admits. He truly believes he deserved every single insult Mark threw at him, including the jibe about his friends. ‘Everything you said last week was true, mate. You shouldn’t feel sorry.’

‘Just because it’s true doesn’t make it very nice.’

‘No, I guess not.’ Rob’s chest rises in a deep sigh. ‘Truth be told your words did keep me up at night, but I had it all comin’, didn’t I? I can’t say I blame you, anyway.’

Mark sounds sad. ‘ _Oh_. I kept you up at night? Oh, my. Now I feel even worse . . .’

Rob chuckles at Mark’s predictable kindness. ‘ _Don’t_ , mate. I kinda deserved it, is what I’m sayin’. I shouldn’t have assumed that my prank calls wouldn’t ever have any serious repercussions, because they did. They have. I can see why my calls may have upset you, and I’m sorry. Especially when I called you a second time. That joke wasn’t very good,’ he adds reflectively.

Mark laughs. He sounds relieved. ‘I guess we’re both sorry about something.’

‘I guess so.’

Robbie feels relieved too. His exchange with Mark seems to have lifted a weight off Robbie’s shoulders that he didn’t even know he had. He feels better, but his heart hasn’t slowed down. Every time Mark so much opens his mouth, he feels a silly little pang in his chest like he keeps missing a step down a staircase. It’s as though he’s about to fall in love with a person he’s never even seen.

‘You know, I’ve just realised I don’t even know your name,’ Mark says, sending another pang down Robbie’s chest that forces him into a stammer.

‘I-It’s Robert,’ Robbie stutters. ‘Robert Williams. But most people just call me Robbie these days. Or Rob. Whatever you prefer, mate.’

‘Rob. All right. Nice to meet you, Rob.’

Rob feels himself warm up inside. He catches himself smiling at his own reflection in the kitchen window. ‘Nice to meet you too, mate.’

‘So we’re cool, then? No hard feelings?’ Mark sounds more relaxed than he did at the start of their call.

‘No, we’re cool. Unless I’m gettin’ you into trouble with your boss for havin’ this call?’ Rob adds reflectively, only just remembering that Mark mentioned someone threatening to fire him last week.

‘My least favourite co-worker doesn’t work on Saturdays, so no. And it’s already teatime, anyway. I’m the last person in today. It’s the first time I’ve ever had the place to meself, actually. It’s quite nice. Usually, I’m having to be really careful about everything I do, which can get quite exhausting after a while,’ Mark concludes with a sound of bitterness in his voice.

‘Was he mad at you last time I rung? Your co-worker.’

Mark lets out a deep sigh. ‘My co-worker is always mad at me. He’s a big bully, I’m afraid. He’s partly the reason why I got so mad last time — he kept staring at me like he _wanted_ me to be angry at you. So that’s what I did. Deep down, I must have been terrified that he’d report me to my boss – his dad – if I didn’t tell you off for phoning me. I know that doesn’t justify what I did, but still. I constantly feel like he’s watching me.’

‘He sounds lovely.’

‘He does, doesn’t he? He nearly ran me over with his brand new Mercedes yesterday, actually. That was nice of him.’

Rob lets out a low whistle between his lips. ‘Wow.’

‘Yeah . . .’

Robbie doesn’t know why, but he wishes he knew what Mark looks like. Ever since he began his prank calls to the bank, he imagined Mark to be tall, dark and handsome, with a smile to die for. He’s probably a bit older, but not old enough to get Rob in serious trouble. He’s probably dead sexy too. He _sounds_ sexy, anyway.

With all the phone calls they’ve been having, Rob reckons he could very well get away with asking Mark to meet him. They could have lunch somewhere. Or play football. Or just sit on a bench somewhere and watch the world pass them by. Rob would like them too.

But before Rob can build up the courage to ask Mark to meet up, Mark gets there first, like they’re somehow linked together.

‘Anyway,’ Mark sighs, like saying these words takes _him_ a lot of courage too, ‘I was just wondering if you’d like to meet up one day? I remember you saying you had a lot trouble making mates, so — you know, maybe it’d be nice if — but we don’t have to if you don’t want to. I know we don’t know each other.’

‘No, I want to,’ Rob blurts out a bit too keenly. He tries to rein in his enthusiasm so he doesn’t sound like he wants to see Mark Owen very much indeed. ‘Unless you’re sixty years old or something. You’re not sixty, are you?’

‘No.’

Robbie laughs. ‘No, I didn’t think you were.’

Mark laughs a little suspiciously. ‘And why’s that, Mr Williams?’

If Rob didn’t know better, he’d almost think Mark sounded a little flirtatious. Cheeky.

Rob actually nearly blurts out that Mark sounds way too sexy to be a sixty-year-old bloke, but he stops himself just in time. More or less. ‘Dunno. It’s just the way you talk, I guess. It’s nice.’

Mark utters a suspicious, questioning _hum_. ‘You like the way I sound?’

‘I mean, you _sound_ nice. As in, you sound like a nice sort of bloke. Yeah. Anyway!’

At the other end of the line, Mark has to stop himself from giggling. With him being a little older than Robbie, and therefore having talked to quite a few girls and boys who _clearly_ fancied him, Mark can unquestionably hear that Rob’s a little flustered. _Nervous_ , in the best way possible.

‘You still there, Rob?’

‘Yeah. Sorry.’ Rob scratches the back of his head. He was so busy thinking about how lovely Mark sounds that he forgot they were about to make arrangements to meet up, which is pretty fucking distracting in itself. He hasn’t met up with a potential friend for ages! Or rather, he has, but those friends didn’t quite make his heart race like Mark does.

‘When you say “meeting up”, Mark, what were you thinkin’ of specifically? Like, did you wanna meet up tomorrow morning or . . . ?’

‘Well, I have quite an important football match tomorrow so I don’t think I’ll be able to make it, but we could hang out after I finish my shift on Monday? I was already planning to head into town to buy a couple of records anyway, so you can come along if you want to.’ Mark’s next words have an uncertainty to them. ‘You . . . _do_ live in the area, don’t you? As in, Manchester city centre? That’s where I work.’

Rob vaguely tells Mark where he lives. They don’t know each other, so Rob doesn’t want to give Mark his address in case the other guy turns out to be a creepy older guy after all. Mark replies with an equally ambiguous description of his own hometown.

‘Does it take you long to get to work, travel-wise?’ Rob asks. He’s never been to Mark’s hometown.

‘A little,’ says Mark. ‘I’m trying to save up for driving lessons so I can get to work quicker, but it’s taking me ages. Lessons are really expensive and there are some other things I’m saving up for too, so I have no choice but to take the bus to work every day. It’s a bit of a pain because sometimes it’ll snow and the bus will be delayed, but other than that I don’t mind. I like looking out of the window.’

Then Mark clears his throat. He was so busy chatting away about work and buses that he completely lost the trail of their conversation. Rob doesn’t mind (he’d happily listen to Mark Owen talking about nonsense for the rest of the day), but Mark seems to think that his blabbing must have been a bit rude.

‘Anyway, listen to me, talking about work! I haven’t even asked you if you’d actually _like_ to go shopping with me,’ Mark says.

‘No, I do! Shoppin’ sounds nice,’ Rob confirms. Manchester is quite a detour for him all the way from his hometown, but he wants to see Mark so badly that he won’t mind the journey.

‘Awesome!’ Mark Owen sounds utterly pleased, and for only the third time that evening, Robbie knew he wishes what the lad looks like. ‘Would meeting up at Observer’s Bank at twelve o’clock work out for you, Mr Williams?’

Robbie snorts.

‘— did I say something wrong?’ Mark.

‘No, it’s just — you kinda sounded like you were tryin’ to set up an appointment for a customer just now, all professional and stuff. It’s cute. It makes me wonder what you look like.’

Mark laughs. ‘Does that mean we’re meeting up at twelve, then? Unless you have to go to school on Monday?’

It’s just an innocent remark, but it’s enough to make Rob slap his right hand to his forehead.

‘ _Oh_ , _shit_.’

‘You have to go to school,’ Mark interprets.

Rob bites his lip. ‘May do. Yeah. Oops.’

‘All right. _Um._ I’m not really available on other days, I don’t think,’ Mark sighs. He sounds somewhat disappointed that his meeting with Robbie could potentially be cancelled. ‘What would happen if you missed one day of school?’

‘Nothing, to be fair. I’d probably get threatened by the principal for bein’ a terrible student, but nothin’ serious would happen. Me school never expels anyone. If you wanna meet up on Monday, then we’ll meet up on Monday. I don’t mind.’

‘Are you sure? I don’t want to get you into trouble with school.’

‘You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll be there. Twelve o’clock at Observer’s Bank on Monday, I swear. But I still don’t actually know what you look like . . .’ Rob trails off, fully aware of how curious he sounds. ‘That might be an issue, Mark.’

Mark laughs knowingly. He tries to describe himself without giving too much away. ‘I guess you could just recognise me by the name tag on me uniform or something.’

Rob lets out an exasperated laugh. That’s not really what he meant, but he guesses Mark knows that too. With the two of them having never met, this is the only way they can tease each other: quietly and amicably, so they won’t actually be accused of anything. They may have gone off on the wrong foot, but that doesn’t stop them from already being terribly curious about each other.

‘What if there are more bank workers called Mark Owen?’

‘There aren’t.’

‘But what if, theoretically, we assumed that there are.’

‘ _Hm_. I’m kinda short, for a lad. I’ve got brown hair. _That’s_ short also. Me hair, I mean. _Um._ I don’t really know how else to describe myself, to be honest. I guess I don’t really stand out that much. I once won an award for “Best Smile”, though, so maybe — I don’t know, maybe you should look for a short lad with brown hair and an all-right smile.’

Mark’s own description of himself is quite titillating, but it’s not very useful.

‘Maybe you should wear a hat,’ Rob suggests.

‘Maybe!’ Mark laughs. His voice takes on a light, flirtatious air. ‘So what about you, then, Mr Williams? What do _you_ look like?’

Robbie looks at himself in the reflection of the kitchen window. He considers telling Mark that he’s extremely tall and that he’s got the body of a Calvin Klein model, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Mark when they meet on Monday. So: ‘To be brutally honest, Mark, there isn’t much I can say about meself either. I’m afraid to say you’ll have to keep your eyes open for an average-lookin’ person next week.’

Mark laughs. ‘I asked what you _looked_ like, Rob, not how you rate yourself.’

‘Six and a half, now that you mention it. Maybe a 6.9 if I put on me purple and blue summer jacket.’  

‘You should wear that on Monday, then.’

‘You know what, mate, I think I’ll put on me purple and blue summer jacket,’ Rob says as though he’s come up with the idea entirely on his own.

‘Or you could put on your summer jacket,’ Mark offers helpfully.

‘ _Nah._ I think I’ll put on me summer jacket.’

They both laugh at the silliness of their exchange. Rob doesn’t really know what else to say that doesn’t involve poking fun at himself or asking Mark awkward questions like the colour of his eyes or what his body looks like, so he repeats the details of their upcoming meeting one more time before he can accidentally blurt out something he shouldn’t.

‘So that’s settled, then, Mark? Observer’s Bank at twelve o’clock on Monday?’

Mark makes an affirmative sound that sends a little flutter down Rob’s stomach. Robbie really needs to get used to that feeling before seeing Mark in real life gives him a heart attack.

‘I think I’ll be waiting in front of the building if that’s all right with you,’ Mark adds. As per usual, he starts blabbing a bit. ‘We have just the one entrance so you should be able to find me quite easily. Do you know where the bank is? It’s not that noticeable, I’m afraid — my boss thought it’d be enough to have the name of the bank on the front door but most people just walk straight past it. I’ve heard it’s going to be cold on Monday, by the way, so you might wanna put on a few extra layers in case me shift runs late. Anyway, there’s a coffee shop next to the bank so if you get lost you should just look for a big inflatable coffee cup.’

Rob snorts. ‘I don’t visit Manchester that much so I’ve no idea what you’re talkin’ about, to be honest, Mark, but me mum’s probably heard of the bank. I think I’ll just tell her a fib about needin’ to go to Manchester for an apprenticeship and ask her to drop me off there.’

The words leave his mouth before Rob can stop them, and he becomes very aware of the fact that he’s just told Mark Owen that he’s going to ask his mum to drive him somewhere. He takes back his words immediately.

‘By which I mean to say, Mark, me mum will probably, like, offer to drive me. You know what I mean? She doesn’t _have_ to,’ Rob adds with an air of indifference. ‘I’m perfectly capable of going to Manchester on me own. I just need to not get lost and stuff.’

‘You could call for directions on Monday.’ Mark suggests it as though he would desperately like Rob to call him again.

‘Wouldn’t you get in trouble with your scary co-worker if I did?’

‘He only works on Fridays.’

Rob doesn’t know why that piece of information might be particularly important, but for some reason, he decides to write it down on notepad anyway, like it could come in handy later. It will.

‘Well, in that case, I _might_ phone,’ Rob concludes. ‘But I probably won’t have to.’

With their meeting having been confirmed again, they’ve more or less come to the end of their phone call. Rob almost manages to exit their phone call embarrassment-free before his curiosity gets the better of him and he asks Mark something dead awkward anyway. The words burst out of him before he can stop them.

‘Before I go, Mark — and I know this is a _really_ strange question to ask a bloke over the phone, but bear with me all right — This is not a . . . _date_ we’re about to go on, right? Cos it kinda feels like we are, mate. You know what I mean?’ Rob laughs nervously. He feels heat rise up his cheeks. There was something in the way Mark spoke to him earlier that’s made Rob feel, hopelessly, like Mark was chatting him up. ‘Not that I’m sayin’ it’d be _wrong_ if we were, mate, I’m completely fine with blokes bein’ that way inclined. But does this feel like we’ve just agreed to go on a date to _you_? It feels like we’ve just agreed to go a date to me. Please tell me if I’ve crossed a line ‘ere, Mark.’

Rob regrets saying the words immediately. He has no idea where they came from, other than that they must have come from a place of complete and utter desperation.

He’s half expecting Mark to hang up in a huff, but Mark Owen is not that kind of person. Quite the opposite: there’s a hopeful note in Mark’s voice instead, like he was having the exact same thoughts but didn’t want to be the one to say them out loud.

‘Do you . . . _want_ it to be a date, Mr Williams?’

Rob’s heart starts racing. He could still take back his words and pretend he was joking, like he has done every single time he called the bank, but what would be the point in that? He’d only be lying. He _would_ like it to be a date. He doesn’t know why. He just does.

‘I would, Mark.’ Too candid. Rob moderates his tone. He tries not to sound as enthusiastic as he feels. ‘I mean, what would you say if I _did_ , Mark? Again, theoretically.’

Silence. In the background, Robbie can hear the clock above the kitchen sink tick away as slowly as though time itself has stopped. In kitchen window, Robbie can see his own reflection: terrified, hesitant, anxious. In his hands, he can feel the phone almost slip away because of his clammy, sweaty palms.

At last, Mark puts him out of his misery. He puts on his kindest, most charming voice; not the voice he uses for customers, but the voice he uses for people he finds utterly charming. If Rob could see Mark right now, he’d find the lad staring back at him like Rob’s the brightest, most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

‘I think I’d say I’d like that very much, Mr Williams. You know, _theoretically_.’

‘Seriously?’

‘ _Seriously_ ,’ Mark echoes.

Rob’s mouth spreads into a wide grin. They both stammer their goodbyes (with Mark taking even longer than he’s supposed to because he keeps reminding Rob where the bank is), and by the time they hang up, Rob’s heart is positively racing inside his chest.

He has already forgotten that he was supposed to call a bloke about an audition. 

♪

Mark still can’t believe the past fortnight has actually happened. Not only did he foolishly fall for several prank calls, he also managed to fall for the very lad who phoned him, like a proper infatuated teenager. It all sounds like the plotline of a strange romantic comedy, but it isn’t. It’s Monday, and he’s about to go on a date with someone he’s never even _seen_.

There are a few things that could potentially make Mark’s first meeting with Robbie Williams more complicated than it should be. One, he doesn’t know what Robbie Williams looks like, obviously. Two, Mark wasn’t actually planning to turn his meeting with Rob into a date when he first suggested it. This was originally going to a casual “let’s be friends” sort of meeting after work, which means that, Three, Mark will be wearing his uniform.

Four, Mark’s uniform is absolutely awful. It is not a good look. Whatever the weather, Mark will probably have to cover himself up with his own winter coat for the rest of the day.  

Five, the fact that Mark is _already_ feeling anxious about what he’ll look like on Monday means that he already likes Robbie Williams far more than he has every right to. They’ve never even met, and yet here Mark is: worrying about his shoes and his uniform and whether he should put gel in his hair or not. It’s like he’s about to go on a date with someone off the telly and not a stranger.

Six, _he’s going on a date_. Again, this isn’t what Mark had in mind when he called Rob on Saturday. Mark _loves_ dates, but he hasn’t been on a single date since he was sixteen: a century ago when you’re young. With Rob not sounding much older than that, this could very well be the most awkward blind date of all time.

What if asking Rob out is the biggest mistake he’s ever made?

♪

When Robbie wakes up at six in the morning, he actually feels happy for the first time in weeks; so much so that he decides he’s going to put on his very best clothes rather than the old, smelly hoodie he’s always wearing. If he’s going on a date with someone he’s never met, he might as well go into it looking reasonably okay. But first, he needs underpants. (For perfectly normal reasons, thank you very much. Rob is not planning to “get it on” with Mark Owen. After all, Rob is still a virgin and would never want to have lewd thoughts about anyone. Not even a cute bank cashier.)

Whilst scouring his exploded mess of a bedroom in search of a nice pair of clean M&S boxers, Rob finds a couple of magazines he didn’t know he had. When he runs his fingers along their covers, they come away with a thick layer of dust as if they’ve been there for ages. They’re quite laddish magazines: most of their articles cover topics such as cars, rockets, science fairs and how to talk to girls. Apart from a long, useful spread about how to play truant without your parents finding out, their contents don’t interest Rob much anymore.

Besides: Rob decided not to lie to his mum about an apprenticeship in Manchester after all. He truthfully told her he was meeting a cute boy in Manchester rather than going to school this morning, and she got very excited for him, bless her. (She then also decided to ground Robbie for the next three days, but Rob already saw that one coming. At least she didn’t get angry about Rob _sort of –_ seriously? – fancying a boy. Good ‘Ol Mum, only caring about school results.)

Back in his bedroom, Rob lazily flicks through his old magazines regardless of their contents. He scans their pages to see if there are any articles about blind dates with boys, only to land on a five-page spread about pranks. He initially dismisses the article, but then he spots an interesting-looking prank in the corner of page 33, circled red.

It’s to do with post-its, or sticky notes:

_Never underestimate the power of post-its. Post-its come in a million different colours and are therefore unmissable at school, work or at home –– or if you want to annoy that one teacher at school who keeps threatening to suspend you. Ask yourself: would your grumpy geography teacher like it if his desk chair were plastered in pink sticky notes? Or if he found his car covered in a thousand Post-Its after school? All you need is a bunch of post-its, some mates to help you out and you’ll become the top prankster at school in no time!_

Next to the description of the prank, there is a big collage of pics of three lads covering a person’s car in what must be a million post-its. It looks dead impressive, and Rob feels the same tingle of excitement he always experiences when he’s about to play a prank on someone. The problem is, there’s no one he can actually play the prank on — or so he thinks . . .

♪

The clock has struck 11:30. It’s only twenty-five minutes until the end of Mark’s shift, which is just as well because Mark has been struggling to keep his mind on work all day.

In less than half an hour, Mark will be waiting in front of Observer’s Bank in the cold, desperately wishing he’d wasn’t still wearing his uniform. If he and Mark were meeting an hour later, at the coffee shop next door, he might have been able to change into something a little nicer. A cute T-shirt perhaps. Or his favourite pullover that’s perfect for cuddling in.

At one point Mark even seriously considers hopping into the clothes shop on the other side of the road and buying a last-minute sexy date outfit, but it’s already too late. A glance at the clock in the lobby tells him it’s already 11:55, and he feels a petrifying mix of dread, excitement and fear.

It’s only then that Mark realises he has no idea what to expect. He knows that he and Rob are going shopping, but what if they don’t have a connection? What if, in spite of all their phone calls, they have absolutely nothing to talk about? 

This could very well turn out to be the most uncomfortable blind date of all time, assuming that Robbie Williams even shows up at all. He could still bail on Mark. Or worse: they might not even recognise each other, forcing Mark to stand outside in the cold all day, not knowing that the cutest boy in all of Manchester has already walked past him a million times.

The date going south is such a scary possibility that Mark has already had several dreams about his meeting with Rob. In the dreams, Robbie ends up going on a date with a different Mark Owen from a different Observer’s Bank. He _looks_ like Mark, but it isn’t him. The real Mark has to watch as his own, perfect idea of Robbie Williams walks away from him. 

What’s worse, Richard Toole always features in the dreams too. Over the past fortnight, nightmares about Richard have plagued Mark’s consciousness every time he goes to bed. They range from dreams about Richard locking him up in the bank to dreams of Richard showing up at Mark’s music lessons and laughing at every single lyric he’s ever written.

The dreams are enough to make Mark never want to go to bed again.

Thankfully, Richard isn’t at work today, so the only thing Mark has to worry about is how he’s going to spot Robbie Williams in a sea of umbrellas. The only thing he knows about Rob is that he’ll be wearing a purple and blue summer jacket and that he’s supposedly quite “average looking”, but it’s not very useful: in this day and age, everyone likes purple and blue summer jackets. It’ll be like looking for a needle in a haystack.

***

At twelve o’clock precisely, Mark starts his wait in front of the bank entrance, where a small awning shields him from the pouring rain. Every now and then, a drop of water lands in the gap between his scarf and his skin and continues its way all down the back of his neck. Time passes at a snail’s pace.

Mark’s cold. He’s shoved his red hands into the pockets of his coat. His big white scarf covers his mouth and neck. Every now and then, a customer will enter the bank and activate the automatic doors, making a waft of warm air tickle Mark’s back. The customers all shake off their umbrellas at Mark’s feet as though they can barely see him standing there.

Even though he made the effort to put on a snug winter coat to cover up his uniform, Mark still decided to sling his “Observer’s Bank” tote bag over his shoulder in the hopes that it’ll help Rob recognise him. It’s otherwise filled with the blue exercise book he uses for his lyrics, his wallet, a large bag of pick-n-mix and a shopping list his mum gave him. In front of him, a deep puddle is forming between the cobbles in the pavement. If Richard Toole were here, he’d probably push Mark into it face-first and tell him to stop blocking the entrance.

Each minute starts to feel like a century. Hopeful, Mark looks up at every single person who steps inside the bank. They’re not Robbie Williams. They’re all too old. Or female. Or quite frankly nothing like the image Mark has of Rob. In hindsight, they should probably have met up at the coffee shop next door after all.

The more minutes pass, the more nervous Mark gets. He no longer feels excited. He’s trembling, and not just because of the cold. Again, Mark’s hit with the desperate notion that someone’s having him on. That this is all part of Richard’s big master plan to drive him mad. It could be.

But it isn’t.

A finger taps his shoulder, and Mark turns around to stare into the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen.

The owner of the pair of eyes, an unfairly tall lad with soaked black hair and unruly eyebrows, looks slightly flustered. He sounds like he’s been running. He’s wearing an oversized purple and blue summer jacket like the one Robbie described over the phone. Even though the jacket has a hood, he didn’t bother putting it on for some reason.

‘Sorry, do you work for Observer’s Bank?’ the lad asks. ‘I’m lookin’ for a lad called Mark . . . I dunno if you know him? The name’s Robbie.’

Mark feels a pang in his chest. His stomach makes a weird backflip.

‘ _It’s me_!’ Mark cries, except Robbie can’t hear it because of the scarf covering his mouth.

‘Sorry, what’s that?’

Mark quickly unwinds his scarf from his mouth and takes it off. In doing so, the frilly ends of the scarf accidentally land in the puddle at Mark’s feet, soaking them. Mark pretends not to have seen it and casually shoves the scarf into his tote bag from work as though he was never even wearing it.

‘It’s _me_!’ Mark reiterates as coolly as he can. ‘I’m Mark! Mark from the bank! Mark Owen!’

Rob’s eyes become as large as saucers. He smiles widely when he looks at Mark properly.

Mark Owen’s properly handsome. He’s a bit older, but not by a dangerous amount: he must be about sixteen or seventeen. He’s got dreamy blue eyes and a full head of brown hair that sort of flops over his eyes. The coat he’s wearing – a long winter coat that Mark got as a freebie from his previous job – looks bloody expensive. Fashionable, even.

And then there’s that _smile_. Mark’s definitely a ten out of ten compared to Rob’s modest 6.9.

Similarly, seeing Robbie Williams in his purple and blue summer jacket makes Mark’s heart race like mad. He feels a little light in the head as he tries to take in everything that makes Robbie Williams so impossibly handsome: his steely green eyes; his hair, wet and messy; his pink lips as they curve into a big grin. He’s at least a head taller, forcing Mark to look up at him a little. It’s not the image Mark had of Rob at all, but it’s considerably more handsome.  

A visitor to the bank shakes out his umbrella at the door, and the illusion of the boys’ very first vision fades. They giggle nervously when they realise they’ve probably been staring at each other for far too long.

‘You looked shorter in me head, you know,’ Mark smiles, blushing.

‘And you looked taller in mine,’ Rob admits in return.

They laugh. Instantly, the guilt and fear they’ve been feeling for the past two days completely fades. The fear is replaced by a strange feeling in their tummies; that strange, rare sensation that you’ll inevitably get after having spent two weeks phoning each other and not knowing what the other looks like.

And sure, it’s superficial. How can it _not_ be? The feeling in their tummies is entirely to do with the way Mark bites his lip or the way Robbie runs his hands through his hair. Personality has very little to do with it, right now. But soon, they’ll get to know each other in ways they didn’t think were possible two weeks ago. Robbie will find in Mark the friend he’s always been looking for, and Mark will find in Rob the courage he needs to stand up for himself. This was always going to be about a lot more than just a prank call.

After they’ve spent about a minute-and-a-half just staring at each other, it’s Mark who speaks next. He does so with an uncharacteristic nervousness that wasn’t there when Robbie spoke to him on the phone. Clearly, talking to customers comes as naturally as if he were talking to his friends; talking to a cute lad, however, forces him into a big, stuttered ramble that lasts about five minutes.  

‘So did you have any trouble finding the bank? It’s not that noticeable is, it? When I first came ‘ere I could hardly find it myself. I must’ve walked past it three times before I noticed the bank was right here, you know. My boss seemed to think it was okay to put just the name of the bank on the door, but it’s still not that obvious, is it? I even told my boss so during the interview, what if you put a big sign outside the bank? That would probably get more people to walk in. But I don’t think he liked the idea very much. I still got the job in the end, though, thank God! Then again, I don’t think anyone else was applying,’ Mark adds in hindsight. Then he realises he’s been babbling on again. ‘Anyway, where are my manners? I haven’t even asked you how you’re doing!’

Robbie starts. He was so busy staring at Mark’s _everything_ that the lack of a proper introduction hadn’t even occurred to him.

He tries his best not to sound as nervous as he feels. He wants to give the impression that he goes on dates with attractive lads named Mark Owen all the time. ‘I’m fine, yeah. Brilliant, mate. On top of the world. How are you?’

‘Terrified,’ Mark blurts out before he can stop himself. ‘Absolutely terrified. Great, also. But mostly terrified. Not because of _you_ , though, obviously — you’re clearly not a creep or a predator or something like that, which is _great_! It’s just — I’m nervous. Yeah. Very.’

Robbie lets out a big sigh of relief. He wasn’t going to mention how nervous he was himself, but he’s glad Mark seems to be feeling the same way. ‘ _You’re_ nervous?’ he asks, meaning that he didn’t think cute, ten-out-of-ten boys like Mark Owen could actually _get_ nervous.

‘Yeah.’ Mark scratches the back of his head. Again, his nerves stop him from having a filter on his words. ‘You know, I’ve been so nervous I kept having these dreams that we were meeting up and that you kept walking past me and that I ended up being stood ‘ere, alone. It wasn’t very nice.’

Robbie doesn’t seem to question the strangeness of Mark having dreamt about _him_ , a total stranger. In fact, Rob looks strangely chuffed. ‘You _dreamt_ about me?’

Mark looks away. ‘Maybe . . .’

‘What did I look like?’

Mark blushes as he meets Rob’s hopeful stare. By now, Robbie has run his hand through his hair so many times that his wet hair looks incredibly messy. His nose and cheeks are red from the cold. His summer jacket, a cheap but reasonably fashionable piece of clothing with a big hood, hasn’t been completely zipped up, meaning that Mark can see a red flash of the jumper Rob is wearing underneath. His eyes have something mischievous to them, like Rob is constantly on the verge of making a dirty joke.

Out of all the millions of possible images of Robbie Williams that Mark came up with in his dreams, they were nowhere near as pretty as the real thing.

‘I couldn’t really see your face in the dream, I’m afraid,’ Mark says, fibbing a little. He rubs his hands together in an effort to warm up. Even though it is already mid-April, the weather is still quite cold. ‘The weather was as bad as it is now, though. Cold and raining . . . I hope it clears up soon, don’t you?’

This prompts Robbie to look at the sky. Covered in clouds, the sky above is dark and grey. The rain is showing no signs of stopping, but they know they can’t stay here either; every couple of minutes, a customer will leave the bank and accidentally walk straight into Mark’s back. It’s a good thing Richard isn’t here to reprimand him for blocking the exit.

Mark has seen Robbie looking at the sky. ‘Fancy braving the rain and heading to the record shop near the train station?’

Rob doesn’t know the shop, but then again he doesn’t come here often. ‘Is it far?’

‘A five-minute walk, give or take. Probably less.’ 

‘Well, that’s all right then.’ Rob says this very convincingly, but he doesn’t look at all convinced. He looks up at the sky with fear in his eyes, half-expecting that the rain might burn through his clothes and melt his skin.

Mark, who has spotted Rob’s doubt, suggests something else instead. ‘We could also go to the coffee shop next door if you want? My colleagues said that the weather might clear up at one o’clock, so we’d only have to wait for an hour or so. You do . . . _like_ coffee, don’t you?’ he adds doubtfully when he sees the sceptical look in Robbie’s eyes.

‘I don’t, no. Sorry, mate.’

‘ _Oh_.’

Mark doesn’t know what else to say, so he closes his mouth and pouts. Rob rejecting coffee makes Mark feel like he’s already failed the first, most important test of a blind date. What if they don’t get along after all? What if they have absolutely nothing in common and Rob will reject Mark’s suggestions every single time?

As the doubts slowly whirl in Mark’s mind, the brief flash of connectedness from earlier is starting to fade. He bites his nails as he waits for Rob to stop staring at the sky and say something — anything!

But Rob doesn’t know what to say either. He doesn’t know how to say that he’s terrified that the bad weather is a bad sign. He doesn’t know how to admit that he’s desperate to have a proper conversation but that he has absolutely no idea _how_ because just looking at Mark makes the words stop in his throat.

He’s still excited, of course, but mostly scared. He has no idea whether Mark will actually like him. After all, they’ve never met before. This is their first ever meeting, and it’s raining. How could that _not_ be the start of something dreadful?

Then the sun suddenly breaks through the clouds and the rainstorm turns into a shower that softly fades out into no rain at all, and their faces light up. A dozen Mancunians put away their umbrellas at the same time and take off their hoods. Some of them even zip down their coats and loosen up the scarves around their necks as if summer has already arrived

Instantly, the sky looks brighter. It’s now bright blue with patches of grey. The sunlight glistens in the puddles at Mark’s feet. In less time than it takes Rob to blink up at the sun, the atmosphere in the city centre has changed entirely.  

Perhaps this isn’t going to be such a bad date after all.

Rob looks at Mark. He’s smiling. There’s a coquettishness in the greens of his eyes that makes all the awkwardness melt away instantly.

‘Five minutes, you said, Mark?’

Rob needn’t say more. Mark finds himself grinning back at Rob like an infatuated fool, and they wordlessly leave the comforts of the awning, both utterly convinced that the sun showing its face must be a sign of better, brighter days to come.

***

With the sun suddenly warming up the usually cold April air, Mark doesn’t bother hurrying to the record shop. Just by doing something ordinary like taking a detour down a street Rob’s never to, Mark’s allowing the two of them to have a better, longer conversation than they would have had at a coffee shop.    

Rob is the one to start asking the questions. He’s so intrigued by Mark that he’d frankly like to know anything from Mark’s favourite colour to what he wears to bed, but he reckons he should probably start with a less creepy question first.

‘So what do you like doin’ when you’re not workin’ at the bank, then, Mark?’

‘All sorts,’ Mark replies. ‘I like playing football. Music. I love music. Fashion, also. I used to work at a clothes shop for a couple of months.’

Rob doesn’t know anything about fashion, but he does know loads about football and music. They talk about their favourite football clubs for a little while before Rob eventually asks Mark what kind of music he listens to.

‘I guess I listen to most types of music,’ Mark replies. ‘Pop, rock . . . R&B, sometimes . . . I’m really into indie lately. You know, bands who make big music but aren’t on a big record label, that sort of thing. I love the idea of being able to release your own music independently. And the music’s usually really good too — you can tell that these bands aren’t tied down to one type of song.’

‘Would you say indie is your favourite genre, then?’ Rob knows he’s already asked Mark a dozen questions, but he doesn’t care. If he could, Rob would pepper Mark with a million more, desperate to get to know the guy who gave him a shot over the phone.

‘Probably,’ Mark replies. ‘I like other genres as well, though. But I like independent acts the most at the moment.’

Rob nods. He doesn’t necessarily listen to the sort of acts Mark has described himself, but he thinks he understands: ‘I’ve tried the whole “indie” thing meself, but I always feel like a bit of a knob listening to it, you know what I mean? Like, am I listenin’ to this unknown band because I genuinely enjoy their music or because listenin’ to ‘em allows me to impress me peers with me unique taste in music? I don’t know, mate.’

Mark frowns as they stop at a red light to let a bus pass. ‘Who listens to bands to impress people? That’s just silly.’ Then he catches the shameful look in Rob’s big green eyes, and he feels a bit silly himself. ‘Wait – _do_ you? You don’t, do you?’

Rob’s cheeks turn a guilty shade of red. ‘It was just this one time, all right? There was this lad I wanted to be mates with, so I pretended to like heavy metal for a month.’

‘Did you two become friends, in the end?’

‘No, I really hated his taste in music,’ Rob concludes with a flourish.

Mark laugh.

‘It wasn’t funny, Mark. I nearly lost me hearin’ when I went to a concert with him! I absolutely hated it.’

‘So this whole ‘making friends’ thing, that isn’t going so well then.’

This would have sounded like a mean-spirited jibe coming from anyone else, but not from Mark. Mark’s words have a gentleness to them that coax Rob into being more honest than he has been for months.

‘Like I said over the phone, mate, I’ve been findin’ makin’ mates extremely difficult lately,’ Rob shrugs. At the same time, the traffic light turns green again, allowing them to cross the road. ‘I just don’t know how to do it anymore. I don’t! I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. It’s like everything I do pushes people away from me instead of makin’ them want to become me mate. ’

‘Like pranking them?’

Rob gives a curt nod.

‘ _I_ liked your prank calls, you know,’ Mark says. ‘Obviously, it wasn’t so nice when my co-worker got angry at me, but I suppose he gets mad at everyone. Your pranks were quite good, in hindsight. I shouldn’t have exploded at you the way I did. I still feel sorry about it, you know.’

‘I _was_ tryin’ to open a bank account for a _rabbit_ , Mark.’

Mark shrugs as if to say that’s a fair comment. ‘I suppose that’s true. Then again, your calls were a lot better than being stuck at my desk talking to customers all day. Not that I don’t actually enjoy talking to customers, cos I do — but having you to talk to was nice as well. Very nice. I liked it very much.’

Rob grins. ‘Cheers, mate.’

‘You’re welcome, Mr Williams.’

Still smiling, Rob wordlessly follows Mark into a broad street lined with bookshops and specialist food stores. He still hasn’t seen a single record shop, but he feels too happy to complain. He’d happily stroll around town for the rest of the day as long as he could do it with Mark, a boy he didn’t even know existed until two weeks ago.

Of course, the afternoon is not without its awkward moments. Mark is finding it quite difficult to keep up with Rob’s large strides without exhausting himself, and Mark talks so much that Rob sometimes finds it difficult to get a word in. It’s as though Mark has spent three weeks not being able to talk at all.

But where there is awkwardness, there’s beauty too: there’s the beauty of Mark’s bright blue eyes, so immeasurably striking that Robbie finds himself staring at them all the time; and then there’s the beauty of Rob’s words, witty and clever beyond his years. Rob may be two years younger, but underneath that introverted, prank-loving persona Mark thinks he can see a lad who understands the world better than most.

Eventually, the boys’ conversation strays back to work. Now that the rain has disappeared, the sun is shining so brightly that most people have zipped down their jackets and taken off their coats. Rob’s face has positively perked up as a result, and his hair is no longer wet — just messy. (Mark rather likes it like that.)

‘So that colleague of yours doesn’t sound very nice,’ Rob says, more or less picking up their conversation where last Mark left it. ‘Did you steal his toys when you two were kids or something?’

Mark shrugs. ‘Richard’s been like that ever since we met. He always says really awful things to me, like making fun of my hobbies and stuff like that. Sometimes I think it’s because his dad owns the bank and Richard wants to impress him. Or maybe he’s just having a bad time at home. That might explain it.’

Rob shakes his head in disagreement. ‘Havin’ a bad time at home isn’t an excuse for being a _twat_ , Mark. You can’t justify this stuff.’

‘I know,’ Mark sighs. He doesn’t want to say something bad about Richard, so he keeps his mouth shut.

They reach a T-junction at the end of the street. Mark shoots a quick glance down both ends of the street before giving a little shrug of his shoulders and heading left. With Rob constantly staring all around him as though he’s seeing Manchester for the very first time, he assumes Mark knows where they’re going and follows him blindly.

Rob brings Richard up again by the time they’ve fallen back into step. ‘Have you ever considered gettin’ payback, Mark?’

‘For how my colleague keeps treating me? Not really, no. It’s not really – it’s not who I am, I don’t think. I’d never hurt someone like that.’

‘What if they hurt _you_ , though?’

The mere idea strikes a chord of displeasure in Mark. It’s a question his niceness simply makes it impossible to answer.

It’s true, Richard Toole has hurt and ridiculed him to the extent that Mark can’t sleep at night. Every Friday morning, without fail, Mark considers calling in sick before dragging himself to work anyway. He’ll stare at the clock in the lobby for the entirety of his eight-hour shift, desperately hoping that Richard will leave him alone this time. And even on the days Richard doesn’t work at all, he’s always there regardless. He’s reflected in his father’s disappointed green eyes when they give Mark a long lecture, and he’s always in Mark’s dreams, haunting him. You can’t get rid of him.

But he’d never _hurt_ Richard, and he doesn’t want to imagine that he ever would. He simply doesn’t have it in him, and he doesn’t want to. The last thing Mark wants is to become the rude, angry lad he nearly became when Rob prank called him over a week ago.

‘You’re right, Richard _has_ hurt me. He makes me not want to go to work anymore. He bullies me, every week. But no matter how bad things get, I don’t ever wanna lower myself to his level either. I don’t wanna become the bully he is. Cos I haven’t told you this, but I felt _so_ bad when I got angry at you, Rob. So bad.’ Mark shivers a little, visibly troubled by the memory of their argument. ‘I didn’t sleep for a week because of what I’d said to you. And the thing is, I didn’t even _want_ to say those things to you. I wanted to ask for your name and meet up. But then Richard walked into the lobby and he looked at me with all this hate in his eyes, and something inside of me sort of snapped. It’s like I _became_ him. I don’t ever wanna feel like that again.’

Rob can see where Mark’s coming from, but he still thinks someone like Richard deserves all the nastiness in the world. He brings back to mind the prank he read about in one of the magazines in his room, the one that involved a hundred sticky notes. A prank like that would work amazingly in an office setting.

Rob offers, ‘What if, theoretically, right, someone else took care of your colleague for you? How would you feel about that?’

Mark automatically assumes Robbie is talking about something terribly dangerous. ‘What, like violence? I’d never want that. That’d be really awful.’

Violence is not really what Robbie meant, but fair enough. Mark clearly believes there’s some good in his colleague still, and it’s just another thing Rob likes about Mark along with his hair and his smile and the way he looks up at the world with that dreamy look in his eyes. But most of all, Mark Owen’s genuinely a nice person; the kind of person who sees positivity and possibility everywhere and wouldn’t hurt a fly.

In comparison, Rob’s positively depressed. He doesn’t see the good in anyone. He assumes everyone will hate him from the moment they meet. But not Mark. Mark hasn’t gotten sick of him yet.

On the contrary: in spite of all of Rob’s questionable comments about getting payback, Mark doesn’t seem to dislike Rob at all. They’re close: just inches apart. They look at each other a lot. And sometimes, when Mark’s feeling very, very brave, Mark’s fingers will intentionally brush Rob’s hands and make Rob turn redder than a tomato. It’s just an infinitesimal touch in a city where it’s impossible to be intimate, but it’s enough to make Rob feel he’s finally connected with someone.

***

Mark often forgets where he is going when he’s busy talking to someone, and today is no different. Twenty minutes later, he and Rob still haven’t visited a single record shop. (Robbie actually suspects that they’ve been inside this very street in this very part of the city already, but he doesn’t bother pointing it out because it means he gets to walk next to Mark Owen for a little while longer. There will be no complaints from him today.)

Eventually, the boys take a sharp left turn into a quiet street, putting the sunlight right into their faces. The bright sun suddenly makes Rob feel quite hot, so he has no choice but to zip down his oversized summer jacket. It exposes the tight red jumper on Robbie’s chest, and Mark glances at it instantly. His face softens into something curious and intrigued as he unceremoniously stares at Robbie’s tall, skinny frame; just his type.

Mark, of course, thinks Rob looks impossibly handsome in his red jumper and summer jacket, but Rob is infuriatingly unaware of it. He assumes Mark is staring at his chest because of how envious he is of his jumper, not because of how good he looks in it.

‘You like me jumper, Mark?’ Rob asks matter-of-factly.

Mark blushes. He looks away quickly. ‘It looks nice on you. The colour. It suits you.’

‘Cheers, mate. You don’t look bad yourself, I must say. That coat must have been expensive,’ Rob says with some envy.

Mark looks at himself as they walk past a reflective shop window. The only reason he put on this coat was so he wouldn’t have to walk around Manchester in his ugly work uniform. He knows the coat was made of expensive material, but he doesn’t feel particularly handsome in it. ‘Does it? It’s just a normal coat. I got it for free at the last place I worked at.’

Rob shrugs. ‘Maybe it just looks better cos _you’re_ in it.’

The words are so unintentionally suggestive that it makes Mark look up to see Rob’s big green eyes staring back at him. He probably doesn’t know it, but he just sounded dead cheeky, Rob did. Flirty, even. Is this really the same guy who finds it difficult to make mates? _Is_ it, really? Or did Rob just need someone like Mark to make him feel at ease?  

‘You know, for someone who says he doesn’t have any mates you’re very good at flirting, Mr Williams,’ Mark says candidly. He’s wearing a quiet attitude of amusement.

But Robbie doesn’t seem to be aware of how he sounded at all. ‘I sounded like I was flirtin’?’

‘Little bit, yeah.’

‘Seriously, mate?’ Rob feel shyness washing all over him. He gives Mark the briefest of glances before continuing to speak very quickly, and at length: ‘I don’t think I’ve ever flirted with anyone in me life . . .  Not that I wouldn’t want to flirt with _you,_ Mark. You’re a very handsome lad. It’s just I don’t know _how._ At least, I don’t _think_ I do . . . Maybe the reason no-one wants to befriend me is cos I always sound like I’m tryin’ to chat them up. That would explain a _lot_.’

Mark laughs. He thinks about the time they’ve spent together so far, both on and off the phone, and he guesses it’s safe to assume that Robbie Williams finds him a little attractive. Mark knows that is an obvious assessment to make when they’re technically already on a date, but Rob could easily have found Mark not attractive at all. That’s what happens on blind dates, after all; either you get extremely lucky or you end up spending the rest of the day with someone you’d rather never flirt with.

But Rob _has_ been flirting with Mark, which is just as well because Mark finds Robbie ridiculously attractive too. There’s something awkward and yet unintentionally cheeky about Robbie that Mark absolutely loves.

‘I wouldn’t worry about the people you’ve pranked too much,’ Mark says. ‘If they didn’t want to become mates with you after you phoned them, then I think that’s their loss, not yours. You don’t need that kind of people in your life. And I’d like to flirt with _you_ too, for what it’s worth.’

Rob’s about to make a witty retort about flirting, but then he sees the small, makeshift sign of Mark’s favourite record shop dangling above the pavement up ahead. The rest of his words freeze in his mouth. Like Mark, he drops the subject completely. He gives Mark’s arm an excited little slap with the back of his hand. ‘Is this it, Mark?’

‘Yes!’

They stop in front of the shop. Filled with a dozen records, dolls, mugs, CDs, toys and music cassettes, the window display brings to mind the sort of kitschy, smelly retro-and-collectibles shop that only people of a certain age go to.

In the left-hand corner, Robbie spots a pile of VHS tapes that is about to topple over. In front of it, a random assortment of second-hand science-fiction books takes centre stage next to a large doll dressed as a Stormtrooper. Above that, an inflatable electric guitar gently swoons left and right as though it could drop down the ceiling at the lightest touch.

Next to the window display, a staircase filled with more books and VHS tapes leads down to basement level, where the actual shop floor is. A gentle gust of wind makes a bell outside the entrance ring out in a soothing chime. A large chalkboard sign in front of the staircase lists a long list of recent vinyl releases as well as a “3 for 2” offer on fantasy books on the other side.

Adjacent to the creaky-looking staircase, a dozen random posters of famous flicks meander down the brick wall until the staircase reaches the floor. Half of the posters are movies Rob happens to have watched rather recently, including a movie his sister forced him to watch. The film featured quite a romantic scene set in a record shop such as this, and just thinking about it makes Rob feel hot inside. He finds himself wishing _he and Mark_ would feature in a scene like that, canoodling in the middle of a dozen vinyl records on the shop floor. He doesn’t know why.

Meanwhile, the only thing Mark is thinking of the records he’s about to buy. He bounces on his feet as though he’s about to sprint down the stairs to the shop floor. ‘What do you think?’

The sound of Mark’s excited voice makes Rob jerk awake. He rubs his eyes in the hopes that it will remove the obscene image of kissing Mark Owen from his mind’s eye, but it doesn’t. When he looks at Mark in his perfectly tailored coat, the image only becomes worse.

Mark’s look at Rob is delicately cautious. He can’t read minds, so he assumes the frown on Rob’s face must have something to do with the record shop. ‘Rob? Are you all right? You look a little strange. You _do_ still want to go in ‘ere, don’t you?’

‘No, I do!’ Rob stammers. He turns slightly red when he sees Mark staring at him, and he makes up a white lie about how he was expecting a different kind of record shop. He does _not_ want Mark to know that he was busy thinking about kissing him, thank you very much. ‘The shop just isn’t what I was expectin’, to be honest.’

It’s the wrong thing to say. Mark’s face falls, and Rob has to take back his comment with the speed of light.

‘I meant that in a good way, Mark! It looks really interesting. Yeah. It’s a bit of a mess, though . . . Is that the new Kylie record next to a doll of Queen Elizabeth?’

‘ _Oh_ , I know.’ Visibly relieved that Rob doesn’t hate the shop after all, Mark gives a curt nod as he follows Rob’s flustered gaze to the messy shop display. ‘It’s been like that for as long as I remember. If you’re looking for something special, though, this shop probably has it in stock. I don’t think I’ve ever been in ‘ere and _not_ bought anything.’

‘ _Are_ you lookin’ for anything in particular, then? Apart from your indie records.’

‘Something recent would be nice,’ Mark replies. ‘Or something I’ve never heard of. That’d be great too.’

‘How will you know what to look for if you’ve never heard of it?’

Mark rolls his eyes, which Rob instantly decides is the cutest thing he’s _ever_ seen. ‘Just give me a shout whenever you spot something that looks interesting, all right? Now, shall we? Be careful, though — the shop owner seemed to think it was a good idea to put boxes of cassettes on the stairs . . .’

Mark leads the way as he carefully manoeuvres between piles of boxes and random pieces of memorabilia on the stairs. Both of his arms are spread out, clutching the wooden handrails for fear of falling down. Occasionally, his fingers brush a small teddy bear that has been chained to the handrail for some reason.

It’s a dangerous expedition that seems to take an eternity, but it’s worth it. Once the shop floorboard creaks at the pressure of Mark’s feet leaving the staircase, he’s welcomed by the warm, technicolour vision of Manchester’s most diverse record shop. Behind him, he can hear Robbie gasping in awe.

The record shop amounts to just a single room, but it’s big enough to house a wide range of 12” records, CD singles, cassettes, VHS tapes and hundreds more random collectables that ordinarily wouldn’t belong in a record shop. There are many different sounds, but no noises; apart from the shopkeeper, who smiles at them benevolently, and Brad the shop assistant, they’re the only people there. The characteristic scent of a dusty antique shop is pungent but not unpleasant, and it reminds Rob of being in his own attic back at home. If he concentrates, he thinks he can hear a Kylie record playing in the background.

Rob’s obviously never been to the shop before, so he lets Mark show him around. There’s the huge wall of VHS tapes in the left-hand corner; the wooden racks filled with CDs; the cabinets stuffed full with random music and television memorabilia, like the _Star Wars_ dolls and the fake Madonna autograph, and a million other items shoved haphazardly underneath the stairs.

Mark effortlessly steps over more boxes of memorabilia on the floor until he reaches a large section of vinyl in the middle of the shop. Mark instantly disappears behind a large pillar plastered with posters of New Kids on the Block whilst Rob stays behind to take in his surroundings.

Rob stares in fascination at the store’s interior. Everywhere he looks, there’s a famous face looking back at him: Madonna on the cover of _True Blue_ ; the Michael Jackson cardboard cut-out next to a cabinet filled with random antiques; New Kids on the Block, looking extremely approachable on their poster. It reminds Rob of the newspaper clipping in his room, the one with the details about the boy band audition. If Rob became a part of a band, _his_ face could be on those records too; _he_ could become famous — but only if he auditioned.

Is that a step he’s really willing to take? He doesn’t know. He feels like he’s fast running out of options now that he’s about to graduate from school with several bad grades, but he doesn’t want to put all his hopes on a single audition either. What if he failed? What if he’s forced to pick up a boring job like Mark?

Mark’s voice stops the answer from ever forming in Robbie’s mind. ‘Rob? Come over ‘ere, mate.’ 

Rob can _hear_ Mark, but he can’t see him. In his haze of concentration, Rob had completely forgotten to watch where Mark was going.

Lost, Rob looks all around him until he finally sees Mark’s short little frame behind the “new releases” section. He’s already carrying a bunch of records in his arms that are far too big for him to carry.

Mark sees Rob looking. He asks Rob to join him, then shows him one of the records he’s carrying: a brand new record with an attractive four-piece band in the middle of the sleeve. The name of the band, a group Rob’s never heard of, has been superimposed in bright purple writing. Another record that Mark shows Rob is of a female artist who doesn’t look remotely familiar but is extremely attractive. If Mark’s goal was buying records no-one’s ever heard of, he’s done a pretty good job.

Mark flashes Rob a smile as he shows him a third record that looks just as unfamiliar. It features quite a handsome solo artist who wouldn’t look out of place on a _Smash Hits_ poster. ‘What do you think?’

‘They’re all very attractive, I’ll give you that.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘Nope. You?’

Mark shakes his head. ‘It’s excitin’, isn’t it? I can’t wait to give these records a spin later.’

‘What if they turn out to be really shit, though, Mark? You’ll be throwin’ away a lot of money if they are!’

‘ _Oh_ , don’t say that. I’m sure they’re all really good.’ Then Mark’s eyes glance at Rob’s hands, which are still empty, unlike his own. ‘Don’t you want to buy anything? You know they’ve got pretty much anything in ‘ere if you don’t want to buy any music. ’

‘I’d love to, but I haven’t got any money.’ Rob demonstratively pulls the pockets of his baggy jeans inside-out.

‘You haven’t got any money at all?’

‘Not really. I’m too awkward to look for a job. I get nervous just askin’ shops if they have any vacancies! I do help out me mum at her flower shop every now and then, but it doesn’t pay that well and I usually waste most of the money on a single night out. Not that I’m a _party animal_ or anythin’,’ Rob adds, conscious of not wanting to make himself sound like the sort of lad who parties too much. ‘I only go to the local under-eighteens nightclub once a week. Maybe twice.’

‘Which club do you go to?’

Rob mentions the name of a club in his hometown. Mark doesn’t know it.

‘Is it one of those under-eighteen clubs? You could try making friends there, you know.’ As he speaks, Mark’s hands keep searching the records in the “new releases” section at the same time. He’s moving so slowly that he’s only just reached the acts and artists beginning with ‘F’. ‘You’re probably not the only lad there who’s looking for someone to connect with. Community centres are great too for that sort of thing. Have you tried going to a course or something? Courses are great. I’ve already met loads of people at my — at the courses I go to,’ Mark trails off vaguely, nearly forgetting that Rob doesn’t know he goes to music lessons yet.  

Meanwhile, Rob doesn’t seem that impressed about making friends in a club. ‘I have _tried_ makin’ mates at the local under-eighteen, but I haven’t bothered to stay in touch with them. Besides, most of the lads I’ve met there are only interested in pulling birds . . .’

This provides a perfect opening for Mark to ask a question he’s been hazarding to ask. He stops at the artists starting with ‘H’ in the record box in front of him. ‘And you’re not, then? Interested in pulling girls.’

‘Not exclusively,’ Rob says with the air of someone who doesn’t really concern himself with the gender of the people he’s pulling.

‘What else are you interested in?

Rob feels himself warm up inside. He still doesn’t know what flirting or being flirted with is like exactly, but he’s pretty sure the answer is hidden in the way Mark just looked at him: all sexy and curious and _way_ out of his league.

It makes Rob want to look equally sexy. He wants to _ooze_ confidence when he speaks next. He’ll say something along the lines of, “Actually, Mark, I’m very interested in _you_ , now that you mention it”, and Mark will be so chuffed that they kiss on the spot and become boyfriends or something.

Rob gathers all his courage to tell Mark. He practises the words over and over. He recites how he’s going to tell Mark that he fancies him. That he fancies boys as well as girls.

He wants to look casual, like Mark. He moves his hands to his hips in an attempt to look cool and accidentally knocks over the huge pile of records next to him!

Mark shrieks in alarm. He shoots towards the falling pile of records like a bullet, but it’s already too late. The records land on the floor with a loud _thud_.

Frozen, Rob uselessly stares at Mark Owen suddenly dropping to his knees in front of him. His brain conveniently deletes every scattered memory of the past ten seconds. All he can stare at is Mark on his hands and knees on the floor, picking up records and dusting them off like he actually works here.

It’s not until Mark gives him a pointed look that Rob starts back into life.

‘Rob, a little help here?’

‘Shit. Right. Sorry.’

Mortified, Rob quickly joins Mark on the floor before he can be accused of having _very_ strange thoughts about Mark on his knees.

Rob carefully reaches for the records Mark hasn’t managed to pick up yet. In the process of being on the dirty wooden floor, some of their cardboard covers have gathered a thin layer of dust. Rob diligently blows the dust off the covers before carefully putting them on a pile next to him, upside down.

The pile that Rob knocked over contained about thirty different records, so they spend quite a few minutes on the floor. Conveniently, the shop owner retreated to the storeroom two minutes ago, allowing the boys to clean up the mess they made without being reprimanded for it.

‘I spend most of me time at the bank this way, you know,’ Mark says, apropos of nothing. He checks the corners of a green sleeve to make sure they weren’t damaged during the fall, then puts it on the pile Rob is working on. The three records he was originally going to purchase remain, neglected, on the record box behind him. ‘Cleaning things up, I mean. My colleague likes to make me pick things up from the floor for some reason.’

‘I don’t know why you keep puttin’ up with him.’

‘I have to if I want to — if I want to make enough money,’ Mark stammers, changing the direction of his sentence halfway through.

‘Make enough money for what?’

‘You know. Stuff.’

They both reach out for the same record at the exact same time, and their hands brush. It kills their conversation instantly.

Blushing, Mark pulls away his hand as though he burned it. Meanwhile, a red, nervous Robbie Williams proceeds to spend a suspicious amount of time uselessly scrubbing the cover of a dusted-over indie record with his right elbow. He doesn’t dare look Mark in the eye. He doesn’t speak. Terrified of accidentally blurting out how much he loved the feeling of Mark’s hand against his own, he keeps his words to himself. He just keeps piling up records until there are no more records left on the floor.

After a couple of minutes, the boys have managed to clean, inspect and collect all the records Rob accidentally knocked over. There’s no need to stay on the floor any longer.

Rob carefully puts the pile of records back where he found it. Meanwhile, Mark gets up too and protectively holds the albums he was planning to buy against his chest. Rob recognises all of them, but there’s one record that Rob can’t remember Mark showing him.

‘Weren’t you holdin’ three records before I knocked over that pile, Mark?’

Mark blushes. He doesn’t look Rob in the eye. His face has softened into something quite shy and awkward. Rob assumes it’s because of the unknown rogue record Mark is clutching in his arms, but he’s wrong. Partly, anyway; Mark is mainly blushing because of the way they touched hands a lifetime ago.

It’s silly, of course. Mark knows perfectly well that it’s utterly childish to be fond of such a small, chaste touch when he’s already quite old, for a teenager, but still. Touching Rob’s hand felt different.

Fortunately, Rob doesn’t seem that keen on discussing it. He’d rather ask Mark about the unfamiliar record he’s holding.

‘I’m _convinced_ you were holdin’ three records earlier,’ Rob presses. He seems confused. He’s not sure if he can judge his own memory. ‘Are you plannin’ to buy something really embarrassing and you don’t want to show me, Mark?’

There’s that too, but Mark wasn’t going to mention it. ‘Maybe . . .’

‘So you _are_ holding a fourth record!’

Mark is about to reply when a sound makes the colour drain from his skin. He throws a worried, conspiratorial glance at the empty cash register when he thinks he can hear the shop owner returning from the stockroom. In the blink of an eye, he forgets how good Rob’s fingers made him feel. He’s transported back to Observer’s Bank, where knocking over a pile of documents or books would definitely have gotten him fired. His heart races in his chest as he desperately tries to imagine how he’s ever going to apologise for making a mess on the floor.

Alas: the sound is just the staircase creaking of old age. The shop owner hasn’t seen a thing.

Mark breathes a relieved sigh. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. ‘I’m glad I was there to help you out, by the way,’ he tells Rob. ‘The shop owner could have thrown us out.’

‘He _didn’t_ , though.’

‘He could have . . . He definitely could have.’

Rob is almost tricked into thinking that the mention of the shop owner is Mark’s attempt to stop him from asking about the fourth record in his hands, but he already knows Mark better than that. He takes a moment to take in Mark’s features: the flushed face; the bright blue eyes; the nervous looks towards the cash desk; the flippant comment about the records on the floor reminding him of work. It’s as though a part of Mark’s consciousness will always remain at the bank, pushing himself to his limit because of that _thing_ he’s saving up for.

‘Mark . . .’ Rob doesn’t know how to bring this up. He doesn’t know if they’re allowed to have a serious conversation one hour into their meeting. ‘You do _know_ your colleague isn’t here, don’t you? He isn’t going to show up out of nowhere and give you a long lecture about credit cards and stuff. You don’t need to be afraid of ‘im.’

Mark turns bright red. ‘Who said I was afraid of ‘im? I’m not, all right? I’m not. It’s just . . . difficult, sometimes. That’s it. It’s difficult. But I can deal with it. I _have_ to deal with it.’

‘Must be a pretty special thing you’re savin’ up for then.’ Rob sees Mark glancing at the fourth record in his hands, a red sleeve with a woman on it. ‘Like that record in your hands, mate?’

The comment disarms Mark completely. Something pushes him to open up about his hobbies after all. He reluctantly shows Rob the record he took from the fallen pile, a red sleeve with a gorgeous lady in quite a suggestive pose, from the 1980s. The record quite obviously features an assortment of love songs.

‘It helps me get in the mood,’ Mark explains without thinking.

Rob stares at the woman on the cover. He feels a terrible hot flush when he sees what the record is called, and he becomes painfully aware of the fact that he and Mark are, still, technically, on a date. ‘Get you in the mood for _what_!?’

‘F-for writing,’ Mark’s stammers. Like Rob, he’s turned bright red. ‘They get me in the mood for writing. Love songs, I mean. Love songs — listening to them helps me write my own. I write. It’s one of my favourite hobbies.’

Mark braces himself to be ridiculed for having writing as a favourite pastime, but Rob doesn’t ridicule him at all. He looks at Mark with renewed interest. ‘You write music, Mark?’

Mark nods. His heart is hammering in the aftermath of handing Rob yet another piece of his private puzzle. The rest of his story pours out of him before he can stop himself. ‘I’m not very good at it yet. But I want to be, one day. I’m saving up for money so I can follow music lessons at the local community centre and get better at it. I’m going to buy a guitar, too. If I start working full-time I’ll be able to afford one within two months, I think. Maybe less. That’s why I put up with all the stuff at work, you know. If I lose my job then I won’t earn any money and if I’m not earning any money I won’t ever be able to learn about music. And if I don’t learn about music — well, then I won’t be able to become a singer, will I? I know it’s silly, though, obviously,’ Mark adds self-consciously. ‘People from my hometown hardly ever make it big. I know _I_ won’t.’

But Rob disagrees. He doesn’t think Mark’s dreams are silly at all. ‘Are you kiddin’, Mark? I think it’s amazing! You should definitely become a singer if that’s what you wanna do in life. Actually, I’m a bit of an _entertainer_ meself, now that you mention it—’

Rob digs his hands into his pockets to find the details of the band audition that he copied onto a piece of paper, but he can’t find it. It must have fallen on the floor when he demonstratively pulled his pockets inside out.

Rob briefly looks for the piece of paper on the wooden floor. Just when he _thinks_ he’s spotted the piece of paper next to a record box – it’s just a previous customer’s receipt –, Mark gives a little squeak of alarm.

A second later, Mark forcefully pulls Rob back to the floor. He tells Rob to hide behind a large record display rack. He puts his finger to his lips: _not a word._

Rob ignores the gesture. ‘What are we doin’ hidin’ on the floor for?’ he asks, but Mark just shushes him and nervously points towards the staircase.

Curious, Rob follows Mark’s pointing finger. A couple of metres away, a tall lad with the face of an otter is walking down the stairs with an expensive swagger. He holds his head high. In his hands, he’s carrying three separate shopping bags from exclusive high street chains. Like a true Brit, the brief glimmer of sunlight has prompted him to take his coat off and wrap it around his waist.

Rob looks at the lad, then at Mark, then at the lad again. He looks about the same age as Mark, which could mean –

‘Is he your _ex_ , Mark?’

Mark lets out a strangled, high-pitched laugh. It makes the lad with the otter face look in their direction, and the boys instinctively flatten themselves against the display rack on the floor. Not daring to speak, Mark simply points a finger at his Observer’s Bank tote bag.

‘He’s your colleague!’ Robbie exclaims far too loudly.

‘ _Shhhhh!_ ’ Mark’s eyes flick at Richard, who has stopped halfway down the staircase to crane his neck towards the sound. Thankfully, Mark’s chosen the perfect hiding place: hidden behind the record display rack on the floor, the boys can more or less look at Richard, but Richard can’t look at them. From this angle, the only thing Richard can see is the top of all the merchandise. ‘I don’t want him to know I’m here.’

Rob matches Mark’s whisper. ‘Is he the one you mentioned? The one who keeps bullyin’ you for no reason?’

Mark nods mournfully.

Knowing that the guy on the stairs is the person who keeps Mark up at night triggers something rather mischievous inside of Rob. His brain starts firing terrible ideas at him. He conveniently forgets that Mark ever mentioned never wanting to get payback. ‘Well, _what are you waitin’ for_? This is your chance to get back at him!’

Mark utters a sound of disagreement. Rob ignores it.

‘Why _not_ , Mark? It doesn’t have to be _terrible._ We could just — push ‘im into a puddle or somethin’. Steal his shoppin’ bags. Follow ‘im round. Throw your records at ‘im!’ Rob adds in a sudden burst of inspiration.

Mark gives Rob an exasperated look. He protectively pushes his records closer to his chest and lowers his voice to an important whisper. ‘Rob, _no_.’

‘You’re right, it _would_ be a waste of good music. We’ll push ‘im down the stairs instead, then,’ Rob suggests, illustrating this with a dramatic gesture in the air. ‘You can distract ‘im while I do the pushin’. Or we can do it the other way around if that makes you feel better, mate. Whatever you want.’

Mark gives Rob another disapproving look. His eyes are fierce and angry, but the corners of his mouth are twitching. He feels warm inside knowing that Robbie Williams, a total stranger, would consider standing up for him like that. ‘We are _not_ going to push Richard down the stairs, Rob.’  

Rob gives Mark a cheeky smile. ‘You sure?’

Despite his best efforts to look stern, Mark finds himself smiling back at Rob. The butterflies he felt earlier seem to have found their way back to his belly, reminding him that he’s not just here with Rob to buy records and hide from co-workers — they’re here on a date. They’re here to have fun. Just because Richard Toole has suddenly decided to show up doesn’t mean he has to stop enjoying himself.

‘I suppose you _could_ help me pay for these records without Richard seeing me,’ Mark thinks out loud. ‘If he sees me here I’ll probably never hear the end of it . . . But no pushing him down the stairs, please. Just . . . distract him or something.’

Rob has to pop his head behind the display rack to have another look at Mark’s colleague. By now, Richard Toole has walked down the staircase and made his way to a small section of suspicious-looking VHS tapes. The tapes are displayed in such a way that only their spines are visible.

‘I suppose I could hit ‘im on the head with one of those tapes,’ Rob shrugs. Mark gives him another _look_. ‘All right, all right. No violence, I get it. I’ll just go talk to ‘im and scare ‘im off with me below average social skills while you pay for your sex songs . . .’

Rob gets up from the floor with a bit of an effort. He has just dusted off his trousers when Mark gives his right hand an infinitesimal squeeze and goes off on a big rant, Mark Owen-style.

‘Please don’t tell Richard you’re on a date with me.’ Mark’s eyes keep flicking at the shape of Richard’s frame at the VHS section. ‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t _want_ people to know that we’re on a date, because I do, Rob – that is, you know, I wouldn’t mind if people thought that way about us because, well, I wouldn’t be here otherwise, and we’d make quite a handsome couple – it’s just – the way I look at boys sometimes – it’s one of the many reasons Richard hates me. And I don’t just mean _hate_ , I mean loathe. He absolutely loathes me, Rob. He’ll never let me forget if he sees me here.’

Robbie flashes Mark a delighted smile. He knows he probably ought to respond to the fact that Mark’s colleague hates him for looking at boys, but his mind is stuck on the fact that Mark called him _handsome_ — Mark Owen, the prettiest lad he’s ever seen!

Rob says, ‘I’m utterly aware that your colleague hatin’ you is a very serious problem, Mark, and if you wanna talk about it I’ll absolutely be here for you and all that, but did you just say that you think I’m handsome? Just checkin’.’

Mark laughs in spite of himself. He shakes his head in an amused manner. ‘It’d be a very awkward date if I didn’t, wouldn’t it? Can you imagine?’

Rob does. If Mark Owen from Observer’s Bank had turned out to be an old bloke, or worse, he probably would have been quite disappointed. Rob would never have felt the butterflies he does looking into Mark’s eyes now. He would never have felt so utterly at ease being with a stranger he didn’t even know three weeks ago.

But Rob doesn’t get the chance to tell him. Mark has already averted his eyes and proceeded to stare, hard, at Richard Toole as though he’s the scariest, most intimidating thing he’s ever seen. He’s not leaving his hiding place until he knows for certain that Richard won’t spot him today.

Remembering his mission, Robbie makes a start towards the VHS section and leaves Mark waiting for his cue on the floor. Even though he’s never met Richard before, Rob doesn’t look at all nervous; before Richard can leave the section of lewd VHS tapes and turn into Mark’s direction, Robbie steps in front of the lad and blocks his path.

Mark waits for Robbie to strike up a conversation with his colleague until he sees an opening to leave his hiding place. He gets up and makes a quick beeline for the cash desk, heart in throat.

The same moment Mark arrives at the cash desk, the shop owner appears out of the stock room. He’s wiping his brow. It has been a long day, and he looks very tired.

‘Sorry about that, son,’ the shop owner says, wrongly assuming that Mark must have been waiting at the cash desk for a particularly long time. ‘I hope you managed to find what you were lookin’ for?’

‘I did, Sir. And some records I didn’t know I wanted either.’ Mark sounds nervous. He looks over his shoulder to see Robbie engaging in what looks like a particularly animated conversation with an otherwise frustrated Richard. Obviously, the fact that Richard is a big bully does not scare Rob.

Meanwhile, the shop owner is completely oblivious to what’s happening elsewhere in his shop. ‘Spontaneous purchases are usually the best, if you ask me,’ he says as he briefly takes the records from Mark’s hands and pushes in their respective prices on his calculator. He gives a proud, triumphant chuckle when he sees that Mark has purchased quite a few albums he has played himself. ‘Good choice, this. Have you heard the second single off this one yet? The 12” version is absolutely _brilliant_. Much better than that radio edit they play on MTV . . . Anyway, that’ll be 31 pounds, please, son.’

Mark was so distracted by Robbie Williams doing some sort of dance routine in front of Richard that he forgot to get out his wallet. He quickly shoves his hand into his Observer’s Bank tote bag as the shop owner takes a keen interest in the red vinyl Mark bought, the one with the lady on the front cover.

‘ _Love_ this one. Perfect for wooing the ladies, if you know what I mean.’

Mark utters a distracted, stammered reply. He glances at Rob as he takes several ten-pound notes out of his wallet. He ends up carelessly shoving the notes into the shopkeeper’s hands when he sees Robbie moving his body into a suggestive dance, and he quickly turns his head when he thinks Richard is looking at him. He mutters an unnecessary apology to the shopkeeper and hands him the final one-pound coin in a much more polite manner. ‘Sorry about that, Sir. I didn’t mean to hand you the notes like that.’

‘Don’t worry about it, son. Your mate over there seems very excited, by the way.’ The shopkeeper nods his head at Robbie as he puts the money in his till.

Mark hazards another look over his shoulder. Robbie has now proceeded to do the entire dance routine from Michael Jackson’s _Thriller_ in front of Richard, making it unable for Richard to move away from the VHS section or, indeed, look in Mark’s direction.

‘I could use someone like ‘im in my shop,’ the shopkeeper says with some admiration. ‘He’d get people to stick around all right.’

Mark laughs. He feels a strange fondness for Rob bubbling in his stomach. From this angle, Rob looks dead mad — and quite sexy, too. (That bum in those trousers? Not bad.)

‘I’m not sure about that, Sir,’ Mark says. ‘He might scare some customers off.’

‘I wish! Do you need a bag with that, by the way, son?’

Mark glances at his Observer’s Bag tote bag. It’s not quite big enough to carry four 12” records. ‘Yes please, Sir. If it’s not any trouble.’

As the shop owner opens up a plastic bag and carefully places his records inside them, Mark thinks about what the shop owner hinted at earlier, about wishing he _did_ have someone to scare customers off. ‘What do you mean, Sir, when you said, “I wish”? What did you mean by that? If you don’t mind me asking.’

The shop owner nods at the VHS section. ‘You see that lad your mate is talkin’ to, son? Worst customer I’ve ever had. Keeps turnin’ up his nose whenever I try to help him. Thinks he’s made it cos he can afford most of the things in here! I wish someone would give him a proper tellin’ off – he always puts other customers off from comin’ here. They think, “well, if someone like _him_ shops here I’m never gonna come here again”. And I don’t blame them. But it’s not good for business.’ The shop owner sighs, then shrugs. He hands Mark the plastic bag and changes the subject before Mark can accidentally admit that Richard is his colleague. ‘Anyway, you just enjoy your records, eh? And do tell your friend I was serious about him workin’ here.’

‘T-thank you, Sir,’ Mark stammers. The shop owner’s words about Richard whirl inside his ears. He suddenly finds that he is trembling. ‘And I – I will. Thanks again. Thank you . . .’

With that, Mark makes an awkward beeline for the staircase, nearly knocking over a pile of Kylie Minogue cassettes in his wake. He nervously waits for Rob to give him an infinitesimal nod, then runs up the stairs and sails out of the door before Richard can spot him. He’s still thinking about what the shop owner told him.

Four minutes later, Robbie emerges from the shop looking tired but animated. He strolls over to join Mark just outside the entrance, behind a chalkboard sign scribbled full with the titles of the latest vinyl releases. The clock having reached one o’clock, the pavements are now overflowing with shoppers, dressed in their buttoned-down coats; wool scarves dangling loosely from their necks. Busses pass the record shop from every direction. Pigeons dart between buildings in search of innocent passers-by to nick little snacks from. In the sky, the remaining clouds are slowly beginning to thin.

‘It’s a good thing you ran up the stairs when you did, mate, cos I was slowly runnin’ out of dance routines to distract your colleague with,’ Rob pants. When he sees Mark shooting a nervous look at the shop entrance, he adds, ‘He’s busy payin’ for his tapes by the way. They were . . . I don’t know what they were.’

Mark doesn’t respond.

‘You okay, mate?’

Mark shakes his head. He starts when a large, tall shape suddenly walks out of the record shop and heads in their direction. Thankfully, it’s only one of the shop owner’s assistants, Brad. Brad usually never leaves the storeroom, so Mark waits for Brad to cross the street before he speaks again.

‘It’s something that shop owner said,’ Mark explains. He finds that his voice is wobbling. ‘Apparently, Richard’s been ‘ere before and scared customers off. I thought Richard was only an unpleasant person to work with at the bank, but apparently he’s like that all the time.’

Mark looks down at the pavement. He wishes he was still wearing his scarf so he could make himself disappear into it. ‘I really don’t know what to make of that, Rob. I thought – I really thought – maybe it’s just because of the bank – maybe there’s a good side to him after all . . . but there isn’t. There just isn’t, and I don’t know _why_. How can someone just be _mean_?’

Rob shrugs. He doesn’t have an awful lot of friends, but he’s met enough people to know that, sometimes, people are just twats because they want to be. ‘There isn’t always a reason why someone is a bully, Mark. Remember Darth Vader? He’s just bad.’

‘Maybe he had a really awful childhood.’

‘Well, he didn’t. I know you wanna justify Richard’s behaviour and everything, Mark, but I think he’s a lost cause, to be honest. He didn’t even appreciate me doin’ _Thriller_! I thought everyone liked _Thriller_.’

Mark pouts. ‘It does mean I’m gonna be dealing with Richard’s behaviour for the rest of my career at the bank, though. When he walks out of there he’s gonna be the same person he always has been. He’s not gonna change, ever.’

‘Which would make it even more satisfying if you gave Richard what he deserved, Mark. And I don’t mean “pushin’ ‘im down the stairs” or something, cos I know that’s not very nice, _obviously_. I mean gettin’ _proper_ payback. The kind of payback bullies like ‘im deserve.’

‘What do you mean? What could I possibly do that would make it all go away? No matter what I do, he’ll make me pay for it. I just know it. He’ll make me scrub the office floor if I so much _think_ about making a fool of him.’

Rob takes his time before answering. He brings back to mind the way Richard walked into the shop ten minutes ago; the way he ran his dirty little fingers over the old records like he couldn’t care less about them.

Rob has only seen Richard for ten minutes, but it’s painfully obvious Richard looks down on everyone. He sneers at anyone who tries to strike up a conversation with him. He’ll bully people he thinks are lesser than him. He’ll bully people like Mark just for the way they look at boys.  

So far, Rob has aimed all his pranks at people he didn’t know. Every single person he’s ever pranked was decided by a random number on a random page in a random phone book, nothing more. And in hindsight, it wasn’t fun. It wasn’t fun because it didn’t _mean_ anything. There were no consequences. There was nothing at stake.

But there is now.

Rob tries to explain as well as he can. He wants to _help_ Mark. He wants to show Mark what kind of friend he can be even though they’ve only known each other for less than an afternoon. ‘What I mean is, Mark — I’m dead good at pranking people. Really good. I’ve done a _lot_ of pranks, and I don’t just mean phonin’ people up and pretendin’ to be someone else but downright coverin’ people’s houses in toilet paper. You know what I mean? I’ve done everythin’ you can do when it comes to pranks.  

‘But there’s no fun calling random businesses anymore. I know that now. It doesn’t feel good. But what I just suggested? That does. It feels _right_. You know? I sincerely believe you should get payback for what’s Richard’s done to you because he’s treated you like crap for ages. He deserves it. He deserves to be pranked more than _you_ ever did.

‘So, basically, what I’m tryin’ to say is that all you have to do is give me a shout and I’ll prank the hell out of Richard. I’ll make ‘im pay for what he’s put you through.’ Too keen. Rob has to rein in his enthusiasm when he sees Mark giving him another judgmental look. ‘I mean that in a non-violent, pacifist sort of way, _obviously_. I’m not plannin’ to do something terrible or somethin’. But I know a few ways to get back at ‘im, is what I’m sayin’.’

Mark can’t help it. He feels a cheeky side of him itching at him. He feels strangely powerful all of a sudden. Maybe what Rob is trying to suggest isn’t so bad after all. ‘Do you mean _now_ , or –’

‘If that’s what you feel like gettin’ up to on our very first date.’

Mark grins. His keenness to treat Richard kindly, regardless of how Richard treats _him_ , is beginning to lift. Maybe he doesn’t want to be a good little co-worker after all. ‘It wouldn’t be very romantic, though, would it?’

‘It’d be really fun, though. Trust me, Mark. You need this. _I_ need this!’

Appreciating the logic of this, Mark seriously considers it. ‘So you’re sayin’ you have a way of getting back at Richard that doesn’t involve pushing him down the stairs or throwing me records at him? Because I’m very fond of these records, you know.’

‘I know. I do.’

Rob is about to open his mouth to explain his Big Plan, but then ascending footsteps herald the arrival of someone new.

Mark responds instantly. He quickly pulls Rob behind the chalkboard sign, and they wait for Richard Toole to appear at the top of the stairs that lead from the shop floor. A second later, Richard heads down the street in the opposite direction of the chalkboard sign. In his right hand, he’s carrying a white plastic bag like Mark’s, except smaller. It’s filled with VHS tapes.

Mark waits until Richard has fully disappeared into the crowd until he dares to leave his hiding place. When he does, something in Mark’s demeanour has changed with the flick of a switch. He no longer tries to look at Richard kindly, if he ever did at all. Now, Mark is looking at Richard like he would very much like to prank him after all. It may not be what Mark’s mum taught him, but it’s everything Richard deserves. Robbie was right about that.

Rob recognises the look in Mark’s eyes. It’s a look of unadulterated mischief, and it looks good on Mark. Cheeky. Maybe he’s not the innocent bank cashier Rob thought he was. ‘D’you wanna know what I have in mind, Mark?’

Mark moves his head into a nod without giving it a second’s thought. He may have known Robbie for only two hours and answered his silly prank calls for just as many weeks, but he trusts Robbie Williams completely. He doesn’t know why. Perhaps it’s the way Rob _looks_ at him before he whispers his idea into his ear or the way Rob’s words feel like soft little bursts of air against his skin, but something about Robbie makes Mark feel safer than he ever has.

‘And? You feel up to it?’

The skin around Mark’s earlobe is still tingling. He can still hear Rob’s outrageous words in his head. Two weeks ago he wouldn’t have dreamt of saying ‘yes’ to such an obviously naughty idea, but that was before he met Rob.

‘When do we start?’

***

Mark thought his favourite record shop was a bit of a mess, but it’s nothing compared to the joke shop Robbie has brought him to. Covered from top to bottom in stock, “Manchester’s premium joke shop” (it says so on the shop window) is one of the most vibrant places he’s ever been in. A neon sign blinks brightly above the entrance. Colourful masks and flags cover the entire length of the edifice. Prospective customers spend minutes in front of the shop window, just staring at the items on show before eventually deciding to walk in and buying things they do not need.

Inside, the shop is brimming with activity. Here, Mark finds two young kids, laughing about the magic snow in their hands; there, he sees a set of clattering teeth vibrating their way across the floor. Throughout the shop, mannequins have been dressed up in fancy dress. Masks of the latest blockbuster protagonists are on display behind all five cash desks, and there are enough of them to satisfy a lifetime of jokes and parties. The first floor, which Mark hasn’t been to yet, allegedly houses the largest collection of fancy dress in Greater Manchester. With the number of people queuing for the cash desk with masks, costumes and feather boas in their hands, Mark would quite believe it.

But it isn’t just the amount of stuff that makes the joke shop impressive: it’s the sheer size of the shop itself. The shop is as large as some of Manchester’s most famous department stores. There is an entire shelf dedicated to whoopee cushions and rubber turds. A dozen members of staff, dressed up in bright uniforms, walk around with smiles on their faces. They hand out harmless, innocent sweets that customers don’t dare try.

The joke shop is obviously nothing like the record store Rob and Mark were in half an hour ago, but it’s just as fun; over the past ten minutes, Rob has checked out as many items, including a set of fake teeth, dirty face soap and fake lottery scratch cards he once bought for a classmate. Two seconds ago, Mark’s heart stopped in his throat when Rob showed him a massive tarantula. It turned out to be a fake spider.

Now, Rob’s trying to convince him to buy an inconspicuous whoopee cushion so that he can leave it on Richard’s chair when his colleague isn’t looking. Previously, he spent three minutes trying to justify the purchase of a box of itching powder.

Although Mark likes the whoopee cushion for how harmless it is, he’s not sure about its effectiveness within the bank. ‘Richard doesn’t spend much time at his desk,’ he points out. ‘He doesn’t even _have_ a desk, really. He only ever walks into the lobby to check in on everyone. Basically, if you put a whoopee cushion on his chair there would be no-one around to hear it, I don’t think. Unless he suddenly decided to sit at _my_ desk to tear up my paperwork . . . But he’ll probably end up throwing the thing away. Or throw it at _me_. And anyway, it’s a bit simple, isn’t it? When you told me we were going to a prank shop I was expecting something a lot bigger . . .’

‘Such as?’

Mark feels awful just suggesting it. ‘Like . . . “covering his house in toilet paper”, that sort of thing.’

Rob’s eyes lit up. ‘We could do _that_!’

‘We are _not_ going to cover Richard’s house in toilet paper,’ Mark’s quick to retort. While he’s _more or less_ gotten over his reluctance to get payback, there are still a lot of things that would make him feel terribly guilty, like pranks that hurt Richard’s feelings or get other people in trouble. Consequently, Rob’s already had to discard his brilliant idea of filling the staff room with a sea of paper cups, for there’s no way Richard would actually be the one doing the cleaning. More likely, Mark, Stephanie or Ling the intern would be asked to do it. ‘Just try to come up with something that doesn’t involve making a mess, please, Rob.’

‘Let’s prank call ‘im at work, then,’ Rob suggests.

‘No use. He never picks up the phone. Like I said, Richard doesn’t really do anything at work. He just walks around and gives people the evil eye when he thinks they’re not working hard enough. It’s very annoying.’

‘We could send him a rubber turd in the post. Chain letters!’ Rob adds in a sudden rush of invention when Mark gives him a disapproving look.

‘He’d just throw them away. We’d spend more time writing those letters than Richard would reading them . . .’

Mark’s words fade. He tries to take in all the items around him: the wriggly worms, the trick daggers, the stink bombs, the fake snow, the rubber turd on the floor. Mark genuinely felt quite excited about pranking Richard when Rob whispered the idea into his ear half an hour ago, but looking at these items now he couldn’t feel more defeated. How on Earth are they ever going to prank someone who spends most of his time locked up in the staff room? It’s like Richard has won before they could even get started.

Rob sees the familiar look of anxiety cross Mark’s brow. He squeezes the whoopee cushion in his hands, and it elicits a sad little _frfffttt_ that very much sums up how deflated they’re feeling.  

‘There must be _something_ we can do, Mark. Anything.’

‘Like what? _You’re_ the prank expert, not me,’ Mark says with a bit of an edge. The sound of clattering teeth comes from some distance off. It’s followed by the careless laugh of a young child who clearly doesn’t have to worry about having to go back to work tomorrow.

‘Did I say expert? I wouldn’t say “expert”, necessarily. But I _am_ familiar with most of this stuff, to be honest.’ Rob gives the whoopee cushion in his hands a dismissive look and pops it back on a shelf. He looks as defeated as Mark feels, and he desperately hopes he didn’t blow his chances of Mark liking him by dragging him in here. ‘Maybe that’s why I don’t have any friends. I’m all jokes, but no substance, really. I’m just a punchline on a shelf.’

Mark fixes Robbie with a sad look. ‘Oh, don’t say that, Rob. _I’m_ your friend now, aren’t I?’

It’s the first time either of them has dared to refer to the other as a friend, and it makes Rob blush terribly. A fantastic world suddenly opens up to him like an unbelievably beautiful flower. It dawns on him that he’s not just here to flirt and be flirted with; that he’s not just here to get payback on a guy he hardly knows — he’s here to make mates. And he has. Somewhere between seeing Mark for the first time and sharing the same space on a dirty shop floor, Mark Owen has become the sort of friend that Robbie never knew he needed. Everything else is just a bonus.

‘So you don’t think I’m really annoying and childish for draggin’ you in ‘ere?’ Rob asks a little uncertainly. ‘You don’t want to go home and forget we ever had this date?’

Mark gives Rob the sort of smile that he’d usually reserve for the stars in the sky: the sort of smile that only the most wonderful, intriguing people ever get to witness because of how impossibly beautiful Mark finds them, inside and out. Of _course_ he doesn’t think Rob is annoying. He doesn’t want to go home at all.

‘I’m still here, aren’t I, Rob? I’m not going home unless you want me to. Though I suppose — when this is all over – even if we don’t find something to prank Richard with — I suppose we could always go back home together . . .’

Rob feels a prickle of excitement in his tummy. He feels hot inside as he realises that Mark Owen is definitely trying to chat him up. He wants to say something equally flirty, but he doesn’t know how. His relationship with Mark Owen has been so dependent on jokes that he doesn’t know how to say something meaningful without giving it a funny edge. He doesn’t know anything, really — just that he loves being with Mark and that he’d love to go home together, eventually. Mark probably isn’t talking about watching telly together.

Fortunately for Rob, a flash of enlightenment stops him from ever having to come up with a flirty comeback. He sees a shop assistant walk past with a box of scary-looking rubber masks in his hands, and Rob’s hit with what he thinks is an absolutely brilliant idea. Again.

‘Is there somethin’ Richard is really scared of, Mark?’ Rob jerks his head towards the staircase to the first floor, where the fancy dress section is. ‘We could walk into the bank dressed up as that and give ‘im a heart attack.’

‘I don’t know. Probably not,’ Mark says. Apart from his dad, Richard doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything. ‘I do like the sound of fancy dress, though, now that you mention it. Mind having a look? We’re not going to come up with any ideas being stood here, I don’t think. Not that your ideas haven’t been _good_ , Rob, they’re just not — they’re just not what I’d feel comfortable with, you know. I do want to get payback eventually, but it’d have to be something that I can get behind. Something that doesn’t hurt anyone. I think I’m gonna have to think about it a bit longer.’

‘No, I know. I get it. I do! I know I must have sounded like I had a great idea when I said that I have a way of gettin’ back at Richard that doesn’t involve pushin’ ‘im down the stairs or throwing your records at ‘im, but I don't. I just said that to impress you.’

Mark laughs. ‘You wanted to impress me?’

‘I guess so, yeah. That’s what people do, innit? When they’re on dates? I really, desperately wanted to impress you. But honestly?’ Rob makes an all-encompassing gesture at his surroundings: the masks, the costumes, the rubber turds, and the fake spider on the floor. ‘I mostly just needed an excuse to bring you ‘ere, Mark, I’m not gonna lie.’

Mark chuckles. He’s still not entirely sure if he likes the magic snow or the silly whoopee cushions on the shelves behind him, but Rob seems to love it. It _means_ something. Like how the record shop was an insight into Mark’s dreams of becoming an artist, Manchester’s premium prank shop is almost like holding up a mirror to Robbie’s face. Like Rob, the shop is cheeky. It’s a bit daring. But inside it, lost somewhere in aisle four, there’s a little boy who wishes he could find the one prank that will give him friends. No wonder Robbie likes it.

‘I don’t blame you, you know,’ Mark says as much. ‘It _is_ a nice shop, Rob. I’m glad you took me here.’

‘Wait till you see the first floor, Mark. Mind havin’ a look? I’ve heard that it’s ace . . .’

‘Lead the way, Rob.’

With that, the boys stop talking about pranks. They ignore the joke items on the shelves, conveniently forget about Richard Toole and make their way towards the fancy dress section.

After a short walk up a staircase, it becomes immediately obvious why the shop calls itself Manchester’s “premium joke and fancy dress shop”. Spread out over seven long aisles, the first floor houses every single costume, wig, hat and accessory a party-goer could ever want. There are pirate costumes; schoolboy uniforms; cartoon masks; grass skirts; sexy ruffled dresses; fake police vests; Jedi robes; pirate corsets; superhero capes and a million other costumes that would surpass even the strongest of imaginations.

It is the largest collection of costumes Rob has ever seen, and yet the first floor couldn’t be better organised. In comparison with the messy and disorganised record store that Mark loves, this shop has meticulously indexed and ordered every single item, meaning that there’s an aisle for every occasion, from the Wild West aisle to the aisle with official movie costumes. A couple of large crates and boxes with discounted costumes at one end of every aisle are the only objects that look even remotely jumbled.

For a place that has been designed purely make people laugh, this Manchester prank shop is ridiculously tidy — or perhaps it’s just a clever marketing ploy to make the costumes look like they’re worth much more money than they actually are.  

But as with all joke and fancy dress shops, its strength lies not only in its stock but the way it makes people feel inside. Everywhere Rob looks, he sees people _smiling_. He sees excited customers checking out every costume they can find. He sees the young woman, blushing as she pays for her sexy nurses’ uniform at one of the cash desks. Farther away, Rob sees young children showing each other silly hats and capes with grins on their faces. He sees a dad buying his young child’s first ever birthday costume. An older woman is digging through one of the bargain bins in search for a cheap item to match the hat in her hands.

There’s something to look at everywhere he looks. Even the ceiling has been painted in the colours of the rainbow. It gives the fancy dress section a buzzing air of joviality and fun, and it makes Rob feels instantly at ease. He could spend hours in here.

Similarly, Mark finds a quiet comfort in the way the aisles have been arranged. It’s not at all like the haphazard nature of the record shop, where he had to hide from Richard, or even like Observer’s Bank, where he has to sidestep over staplers and documents at the end of his shift. He _likes_ this place.

Like Rob, Mark too finds himself drawn to the colourful costumes in the aisle they’re in. Fascinated, he fingers the soft, silky material of a grey catsuit. He wants to count the sequins on a large mermaid costume. He stares, in awe, as his eyes try to take in the hundreds of superhero masks above his head, their dark colours contrasted against the bright rainbow of colours on the wall.

Seeing those masks now, Mark almost wishes he could wear something just like it. He wishes he could pretend to be someone else for a minute; pretend to be a boy who doesn’t feel threatened by the people at work. He wants to try on every single costume until he finds that _one_ outfit that’ll rid him of his fears and anxieties for evermore; something that’ll turn him into a hero, perhaps. A hero who can take on Richard Toole and make him go away with a single flick or his fingers.

After spending some moments checking out costumes on their own, Mark meets Rob at a rack filled entirely with silly hats. When Rob sees Mark approaching, he puts on a large fish-shaped hat and quickly strikes a pose as if he were in a fashion shoot.

‘What’d you think, Mark?’

‘Beautiful, Rob,’ Mark says. ‘It really matches your eyes.’

‘Cheers, mate. I only really put it on to fish for compliments, if I’m honest.’

Mark grins. He nods at a large shark costume on a clothes hanger just ahead. It doesn’t look as scary as a real shark. ‘There’s a costume to match, you know.’

Rob gives the costume an unimpressed look. It gives him just enough time to come up with another fish-related quip that makes him feel very smug and clever inside. ‘I’m not sure about that, Mark. It looks a bit fishy, doesn’t it?’

Mark laughs a high-pitched sort of laugh. It’s so loud and _warm_ that it makes two restockers look up from their work as if they’re in on the joke. They’re not, but Mark’s laugh is so contagious that they might as well be.

What’s more, Mark’s laugh has positively twisted Rob’s tummy. He experiences the same kind of tingly _itch_ he always feels when he prank calls people and makes them laugh, except he felt this a little lower. It makes Rob want to hear Mark’s laugh over and over again. He wants to turn it into a challenge: let’s see how often he can make Mark laugh. Let’s see how long it takes until he makes Mark smile again.

Coincidentally, the opportunity to do just that conveniently presents itself. Three young girls walk past in a variety of strange costumes, and Rob gets the Best Idea Ever. Coming in here suddenly doesn’t seem like such a bad idea after all.

‘I have an idea, Mark,’ Rob says seriously. It sounds like he’s about to announce something incredibly important that might change the world forever.

Mark’s eyes flick at the fish-shaped hat on Robbie’s head. It really is hideous. It makes it rather hard to look at anything _but_ the hat, which is quite annoying because Mark likes looking at Robbie’s face very much. ‘Does it have to do with Richard? Cos I can’t really take you seriously with that hat on.’

‘It doesn’t have to do with Richard, no. And I like the hat! I might buy it, now that you mention it. Well, I would if I had any money. But I don’t! Anyway. How about we try to see who can find the ugliest, most hideous costume in ‘ere and the person with the best ugliest costume will win a _thing_?’

‘A thing,’ Mark reiterates sceptically.

‘Yes. A _prize_ , Mark. There will be a prize.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as – I don’t know, a bag of sweets or somethin’,’ says Rob, improvising on the spot.

Mark scrunches up his nose, unimpressed. He loves the idea of challenging Robbie in some sort of competition, but he does want there to be something in him for it. He’s not going to squeeze himself into a hideous costume that’s even more unflattering than his work uniform just for the sake of it. He wants to look _good_ for Rob, not awful!

‘Great idea, Rob, but I’ve already _got_ a bag of sweets.’ To illustrate, Mark shoves his hand into his Observer’s Bank tote bag and proffers the pick ‘n mix bag he took with him to work. It’s half-empty: Mark ate half of it during his lunch break. ‘You can have some, by the way.’

‘Cheers, mate.’

Rob digs his hand into the pick ‘n mix bag and comes away with a handful of jellybeans. Mark opts for a large piece of chewing gum before putting the sweets away again.

The random offering of sweets has given Rob just enough time to think about an alternative prize. ‘The winner will win this fish hat, then,’ he suggests. In his peripheral vision, he sees a young woman heading to the “sea life” section in their aisle. She, too, is wearing a fish hat, which Robbie takes to mean that fish hats are very popular and would, therefore, make an acceptable prize for a competition.

But Mark doesn’t like the look of the fish hat at all. ‘I don’t _want_ your silly hat,’ he responds as diplomatically as he can. ‘It wouldn’t be worth competing for at all! We’d need something bigger. Something that would really make us try our best.’

Rob utters a kind of agreeing hum. ‘What do you suggest?’

Mark thinks about it. He absently chews his chewing gum. He wants to say ‘your number’, but Mark already _has_ Rob’s number, and he doesn’t want to look too desperate, even though he is a little bit. He’d probably sound less desperate if he just admitted he’d like Rob to kiss him on the cheek.

Then it hits him. The idea comes to Mark when he, too, spots the young woman at the sea life aisle. She’s trying on a strange, grotesque jellyfish costume that makes her look like an extra from _The Little Mermaid._ When she looks at the price tag that’s dangling from her arm, she makes a rather shocked face, like the price on the tag is a ridiculous amount of money to ask for what’s frankly just a pink umbrella fitted with large strands of dangling fabric. In other words, the costume is an absolute waste of money, which Mark reckons would make for a rather interesting prize.

‘I think I have an idea,’ Mark says.

‘Okay. What?’

‘Well — I think this is quite good, actually, but you can tell me if it isn’t — how about whoever loses actually has to _buy_ the costume they’re wearing?’

Rob looks up at the costumes around him with renewed interest. ‘So we’d be competin’ for the ugliest ever costume, with the prize being . . . not havin’ to buy the costume? That’s actually not bad, mate. Well done. I think we’re goin’ with that.’

‘Cheers, Rob.’

‘There’s one problem, though, Mark.’ Rob cracks a nervous smile. ‘I seriously haven’t got any money. That means if I lose I’m gonna be in loads of trouble, mate. You know what I mean? I don’t want to end up havin’ to loan money at _your_ bank just to afford a costume I don’t actually want!’

Mark meets Rob’s anxious gaze. His lips curve into a big, challenging grin. ‘You better win, then, Mr Williams.’

Rob wants to come up with a clever retort, but that’s before his eyes accidentally flick down to see Mark blowing his chewing gum into a very big bubble. It bursts mere seconds later, and Rob turns very suddenly and very dramatically bright red. It makes it incredibly hard to think of what the world’s ugliest costume might look like, and Mark cleverly uses it to his advantage: whilst Rob’s still thinking about Mark’s mouth doing a variety of very confusing _things_ to him, Mark’s already moved his pretty little body to aisle three.

Rob being suddenly very flustered has given Mark the head start he needs. It’s only after Mark has disappeared into an aisle with cowboy costumes that Rob realises that the ten-minute countdown has already started. They’re actually doing this! They’re having a proper competition!

Flustered, Rob puts his body into motion and runs into the opposite direction to ask one of the shop assistants for help. By now, his crush has already come up with the best plan ever.

Instead of putting on just the one costume and hoping it’s uglier than Rob’s, Mark’s going to cherry-pick items from every single aisle. He wants cowboy boots to clash, unfashionably, with a feather boa around his neck. He wants the distracting glasses on his face to have absolutely nothing to do with the sparkly accessories he found along the way. Inspired by the clustered nature of his favourite record shop, he’s going to put on the ugliest collection of fancy dress items anyone has ever seen.

Rob has completely different plans. He wants to put on something terribly inexpensive, so he asks a middle-aged re-stocker for the bargain bin and makes his way there. He carelessly rummages through the bin for a couple of minutes, but he doesn’t find anything particularly hideous. Everything’s just _cheap_ , as if these costumes were made by a blindfolded child who couldn’t afford to buy proper fabrics. It does mean they are very inexpensive, which is what Rob wanted, but what if it’ll stop him from winning?

Some yards away, Rob can hear the sound like that of someone drawing a curtain shut. Then the sound of rustling fabric. When Rob looks into the direction of the sound, he sees Mark’s shoes being kicked off in the empty space between the curtain and the floor.

If Mark’s in the dressing room, it must mean that he’s already decided on his costume. He must have picked something quite special, too, for most customers don’t bother using the fitting rooms. They’ll just try on their costumes on top of their regular clothes and walk around the shop with baggy jeans sticking out of their feather skirts.

But not Mark. He’s taking this seriously. _Far_ too seriously, for Rob’s liking. He doesn’t want to lose!

Knowing that he only has five minutes left to find something and get changed, Rob tries the bargain bin again. This time, he does so without looking. He comes away with a child-sized hot dog suit.

The hot dog won’t do. He dumps it on the floor and tries again. This time, the synthetic lucky dip blesses him with a costume in the shape of a lobster. It costs just five quid, and it shows: the material looks poor and cheap.

What’s worse, one claw is slightly larger than the other. One of the googly eyes on the lobster’s head has come off, rendering the animal blind in one eye. The colour of the fabric looks more orange than red. The rest of the costume has holes in places where there aren’t supposed to be any, like a tiger attacked it with razor-sharp nails. The unflattering five-pound price tag has been attached to the lobster’s bum.

It’s perhaps not the “best” ugliest costume in the world, but it’ll have to do. According to the clock above the cash counter, Rob only has one minute left to turn into a lobster — and he really, _really_ wants to win this time.

Rob gets to work whilst an amused shelf filler watches on. The costume consists of just the one piece – the lobster’s head is attached to the back of the costume like a hoodie – so the only thing Rob has to do is step into it like he’s putting on some sort of unflattering red jumpsuit. The bottom half is pretty easy to get into, but the top half is a lot trickier; he has to zip up his costume with his hands already stuck inside the lobster’s claws

It’s impossible. Stuck in the process of putting the costume on, Rob presently resembles a half-man, half-lobster. The hoodie, the lobster’s head, feels suffocating. He struggles to do anything with claws for hands, and two minutes before the countdown is over, Rob ditches his costume entirely. He anxiously takes it off, leaves it on the floor and starts all over again.

Rob heads back to the bargain bin and comes away with a costume shaped like a large human hand. It doesn’t look hideous at all, but Rob has never seen a costume like it so he tries it on anyway. It’s pretty easy to get into. It takes him mere seconds. When he looks at himself in the mirror, he finds a large hand staring back at him. His red face sticks out of a small, oval-shaped hole. Almost his entire body is covered by foam, but his hands are free, which is quite useful because he’s going to need them to help Mark get into a very tight catsuit.

A soft, anxious voice can be heard from one of the dressing rooms. Rob doesn’t immediately recognise it.

‘Hello? Could – could I get a little help here, please?’

Rob turns his face into the direction of the sound. At the end of aisle four, he sees a rather flustered-looking Mark Owen popping his head from behind the red curtain of his dressing room. Apart from his feet and face, the rest of Mark’s body is hidden, and it crosses Rob’s impressionable teenage mind that Mark could very well be completely naked.

Rob’s never imagined Mark naked before (after all, they’ve just met, and Rob is too young to know that nakedness can bring a lot more than just shame and awkwardness), but now he can’t think about anything else. He becomes simultaneously intrigued and terrified — so much so that he freezes on the spot.

But Mark _insists_ that Robbie helps him. ‘I just need your help zipping up this catsuit,’ he explains. To illustrate, he carefully opens the curtain to show off his costume: a grey glittery catsuit like that of an Olympic ice skater. It seems to have suffered the effects of having been tried on one too many times: several sequins are missing from Mark’s elbows.

The catsuit alone would be enough to make anyone question Mark’s taste in fashion, but Mark didn’t stop there. It’s like he got dressed in the dark, for underneath the catsuit Mark’s wearing mismatching cowboy boots. A pink flower chain is dangling from his neck, perfectly complemented by the bizarre grass skirt a his mind for something funny to take the edge of.round his waist. A questionable feather headdress like that of a showgirl adorns his head. The glow of a single small lightbulb in the fitting room bathes the costume in an unflattering yellow glow.

It looks quite finished, as far as cluttered costumes go, but Mark hasn’t quite managed to zip it up: when Mark shows Rob his back, Rob notices with a sharp pang that the zipper got stuck right above the hem of Mark’s underpants. What’s more, the catsuit is _so_ tight that Mark’s had to take his clothes off, which means that Mark’s back is completely naked.

‘I just need you to pull up the zipper on my back,’ Mark reiterates as though Rob couldn’t possibly have noticed that already. He uncomfortably shifts his feet and wriggles at the zipper to illustrate the fact that it’s stuck. ‘I can’t seem to do it myself, and, well, I don’t wanna walk out of ‘ere half-naked . . .’

The image of Mark walking out of his fitting room half-naked renders Rob completely unable to talk. He just _stares_.

‘Rob? Did you – did you hear what I was saying just now? My zipper . . . I need help, please.’

Rob starts awake. It’s only now that he realises he’s been looking at Mark’s back for what must have been half a minute, and he frantically searches his mind for something funny to take the edge off. He tries to sound casual and grown-up even though he’s not. The mere idea of coming anywhere near Mark’s naked skin is absolutely terrifying.

‘Would you say you need a _hand_ , Mark?’

Mark lets out one of those high-pitched laughs that Robbie loves; the sort of laugh that seems to ripple from the core of his body. ‘I don’t know _where_ you found that costume, Rob.’

‘I know,’ Rob chuckles. He visibly relaxes. If he could, he’d wipe the sweat off his forehead. (But he can’t, because he’s currently encased in foam.) ‘I found it in the bargain bin. I guess it must have been a hand-me-down.’

Mark laughs again, and it’s enough to stop Robbie from feeling nervous about helping a _boy_. It’s just a zipper on someone else’s body. Nothing more. There’s no reason to be scared. He can do this.

Dressed in his oversized hand-shaped costume, Rob half-walks, half-waggles into Mark’s dressing room. Once there, Rob can see that Mark has meticulously folded his own clothes on the small bench fixed to the wall, including an unflattering-looking uniform that has the Observer’s Bank logo on it.

‘Is that your _uniform_ , Mark? Jeez, no wonder you hate your job . . .’

‘Rob. Zipper. Please.’

Rob speaks no more. Eyes averted to the ceiling so that he won’t be tempted to look at Mark’s back, he tries to pull up Mark’s zipper as carefully as he can. It won’t budge. He finds himself having to look at what he’s doing anyway, and he feels his nervousness hit him twice as hard as before.

What Rob sees in front of him utterly puzzles him: Mark’s exposed back, with all the tell-tale signs of an active teenage life. Here, he sees a tiny scar below Mark’s neck; there, he spots a bigger scar right on his spine. Did Mark get them when he was young? Or recently? Or worse, when Mark was with someone else? Rob wishes he knew. He wants to want to run his fingers down Mark’s back and find out the story behind every single imperfection he sees.

It’s an intrusive little thought that lasts only a second, but it’s enough to haunt him. Previously, boys and girls were just people Rob wanted to be mates with; now, he’s being introduced to a brand new spectrum of feelings he didn’t even know existed before.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise in Robbie’s young mind. ‘The zipper — I haven’t accidentally broken it, have I?’

Mark sounds as nervous as Robbie feels. His back is flushed pink. His cheeks, which Robbie can see in the full-length mirror in the dressing room, are very red indeed.

Rob doesn’t know w _hy_ Mark is blushing. He has no way of telling whether Mark’s face is red because he’s embarrassed about his own nakedness or because of something else: something darker, like the black fog in Robbie’s mind. Rob wishes he knew.

He bravely picks up Mark’s zipper. He moves it up teeth by teeth. In doing so, his fingers deliberately brush Mark’s skin. It makes Mark turn even redder than before.

Rob has never made someone turn red, ever, and he doesn’t know whether it’s a good thing or not. ‘I’m sorry, I – I didn’t mean to . . .’

Rob sounds mortified. Mark assures him it’s no big deal.

‘No, it’s all right. I – I don’t mind.’ As per usual, Mark’s nervousness renders him into an incomprehensible mess, all because of a single touch against his skin. He starts rambling in a way that he’ll later find utterly embarrassing. ‘Your hands – they’re very warm, you know. Instead of being cold. They’re not cold. I like that about you. I mean — I like that you’re being helpful. You’re helping me out. That’s nice.’

This random but honest compliment completely disarms Rob. He finds it hard to respond to it other than by turning very red himself and wishing he could get away with a lot more than just a soft brushstroke of his fingers. Perhaps if he lied that the zipper got stuck again, he could touch Mark again, even though he has absolutely no idea how he would actually do it.  

Mark stops Rob from having to think about it. His voice is a little high when he speaks again. He sounds nothing like the cool, professional lad Robbie got to know over the phone. ‘Is it up now? The zipper?’

‘Y-yeah.’ Rob sounds like he’s swallowed a frog. He clears his throat and drops his arms at his sides, where he can’t touch anything but the ugly foam contraption that covers his own body. He wishes his costume had pockets so he could shove his trembling hands inside them. ‘Y-you’re all ready now. Unless you want to get a feather boa to go with your look,’ he adds in a sudden flash of inspiration.

Mark laughs. It’s a laugh of relief, and Rob feels a heavy weight being lifted off his shoulders. He’s still not sure what being on a date is like exactly and whether he’s supposed to touch Mark already or just stare at him from afar, but he knows one thing: being on a date is all about making the other guy laugh. It’s about dressing up as a human hand or a cluttered mismatch of flowers, grass dresses and cowboy boots and feeling a fit of laughter ripple up your body like a wave. It’s about the smile on Mark’s face when he steps out of his fitting room and sees the entire ridiculousness of Rob’s costume in front of him, all five fingers of it.

Mark doesn’t know where to look. Does he look at Rob’s red face, framed by foam? Does he look at the cheap price tag dangling from Robbie’s oversized middle finger? Or does he claim not to be impressed by the costume at all, for this is still a very serious competition?

In the end, Mark goes for flattery. ‘I’m impressed, Rob.’

‘Cheers, mate. You don’t look so bad yourself.’

‘Thanks. I have no idea how we’re ever going to decide who wins, though.’

‘Maybe we should ask one of the employees to pick the ugliest costume for us?’

Mark lets out a questioning _hmm_. ‘I’m not sure they’ll feel like helpin’ after what you’ve done to the bargain bin, Rob.’

Rob follows Mark’s gaze towards the bargain bin, which involves him awkwardly turning his entire body because he can’t move his head. The area surrounding the bargain bin is covered by sad heaps of fabric, spread out over the floor like someone dropped them there from a great distance.

‘Oops.’

Mortified, Rob waggles back towards the bargain bin as quickly as his foam hand contraption allows him. He tries to bend over to grab the costumes from the floor, but it’s impossible: being a massive hand renders his body absolutely useless. By now, the temperature inside the costume has risen considerably. He feels like he’s stuck inside a very tiny sauna.

Rob glances at Mark, whose costume is nowhere near as restricting. ‘Do you mind, mate?’

‘Am I going to be cleaning up your messes for the rest of the day, Rob?’ Mark rolls his eyes, but he means no harm by it. He gets to it without another word. Within less than a minute, all the items that ended up on the floor in Rob’s desperate search for the ugliest ever costume are back inside the bargain bin.

Meanwhile, Mark thinks he has figured out how they’re going to decide whose costume is best.

‘We could ask a couple of customers, you know,’ Mark suggests. ‘To decide between our two costumes. We could have an official vote, that sort of thing. It’d be a lot better than trying to figure it out ourselves. And I don’t want to keep the staff off their work.’

Though it is quite difficult to take a lad in a catsuit completely seriously – a catsuit that, Rob now realises, is more “Dancing Queen” than “successful Olympic figure skater” –, he does genuinely like the idea. He’s never won anything, but having a vote sounds like it could be good. ‘So we’d ask a certain amount of customers which costume they think is the ugliest and the person with the most votes wins?’

‘Well, we can’t really word it like that. Voting for the _ugliest_ costume, that is. It’d be very unfair to the shop, wouldn’t it? Asking customers to pick the ugliest costume . . . they’d think we were deliberately trying to scare them off!’

‘Good point. So how would we do the vote, then?’

‘Well, I think we should just ask them which costume is the _prettiest_.’

‘But then _you’d_ win. Because of all the glitters,’ Rob hastily adds before Mark can get the wrongful idea that he’s trying to flirt with him. Which he isn’t. But Mark’s costume would unquestionably be found prettier than his. He could see quite a few young voters liking the costume for the grass skirt alone. ‘It wouldn’t be fair to either to us. Not to me, anyway!’

Mark tries to explain what he was talking about. ‘They wouldn’t be voting for the _prettiest_ costume, of course. Well, they would, but the winner would be whoever has the _fewest_ votes. So the least pretty costume would still win, in the end. Does this make sense?’

‘Kind of. . .’

Rob’s words fade when he catches himself in the mirror Mark’s fitting room. It’s the first time he’s seen the full ridiculousness of his costume, and the sight takes him by surprise. He may look uglier than he ever has, but there’s a little glimmer in his eyes that he hasn’t seen for a long time. He’d almost dare say he looks happy, for once.

If his date had been any different, even just a little, Rob might not have felt happy at all. He might have decided, halfway through, that dates and boys and friends aren’t meant for him. Dates are meant for people who are happier and kinder than him.

But not with Mark. Being on a date with Mark has made Rob very happy indeed, as silly as their day has been. If this is what all dates are like, he wants to go on a date with Mark for the rest of the week.

‘Is this what _all_ boys do when they’re on dates, Mark?’ Rob wants to know if what he’s feeling inside is valid and true and not just something that his mind is making up. ‘Like, try on costumes and vote for stuff? Is that seriously what people do?’

Mark laughs. ‘I haven’t got a clue, Rob, but I’m really enjoying myself, if it helps?’

Again, there’s that little flutter of _je ne sais quoi_ in Robbie’s tummy. He’s not sure if he loves or hates the feeling.

‘You’re genuinely enjoyin’ yourself?’ Rob reiterates, just to make sure he hadn’t misheard.

‘I am, Rob. Very much.’

‘Are you sayin’ that just to make me feel better?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘As far as dates go — would you say this is a good one? I don’t really have a reference point. Not that I’ve never been on a _date_ before — cos I have, Mark. _Loads_ of times. I am _very_ experienced and that. Seriously experienced. But I just wanna make sure.’

‘It’s a good date, Rob. Trust me.’ It’s blindly obvious that this is, in fact, Robbie’s first date, but Mark isn’t going to mention it. ‘Now, shall we go and have this vote, then? This catsuit is less comfortable than it looks . . .’

Rob scoffs. ‘It doesn’t look comfortable _at all,_ mate.’

Rob accidentally finds himself giving Mark a once-over. Mark’s skinny frame is mostly hidden by the accessories around his neck and hips, but it’s not hard to see that Mark’s body is quite nice, for a boy. (Not that Rob would know what a nice body actually _looks_ like, exactly. This is literally the first time he’s ever looked at anyone’s body that way.)

‘It’s a cute look, though, Mark, I’ll give you that. Maybe . . . _too_ cute for this competition?’ Rob adds with a competitive edge.

‘I’m still gonna _win_ , Rob.’

‘Not a chance, mate.’

***

Mark and Robbie’s “ugliest costume” contest is as short as it is mindboggling. Only ten minutes after they put on their costumes, the boys have returned to aisle four in the fancy dress section. In front of them, on the floor, they find ten folded-up pieces of paper. Each piece of paper represents one vote: either a vote for Robbie’s “hand” costume or Mark’s cluttered catsuit. For the sake of transparency, they’ve gathered votes from two children, one stressed-out father, an elderly couple and their grandchild, three giggling girls who have just bought sexy costumes for their friend’s hen night, and a member of staff.

They start counting. After six votes, Rob is clearly in the running: five people have voted for Mark thus far, meaning that most people thought Rob’s costume was the ugliest. Rob has never won anything in his life, but he’s absolutely convinced that today will be his first victory of many.

He’s wrong. When Rob and Mark look at the remaining four votes, Robbie’s heart sinks. Four more people have voted for his hand-shaped costume. It’s a tie. There’s no winner at all.

It dawns on Rob that they should have asked for an eleventh opinion, but it’s too late now. The result is set, and there’s no point suggesting that they gather more votes. Rob has already known Mark long enough to know that Mark probably won’t allow it for the sake of “fair play”. This is it. They’ve just wasted fifteen minutes on a pointless competition that they could otherwise have spent somewhere else.

‘Well, that was pointless,’ Rob says as much. ‘What are we supposed to do with _that_? I don’t want to share the first place with you! No offence, Mark.’

‘I wouldn’t call it “pointless”, necessarily,’ Mark says, a little distractedly, as he starts stacking the paper votes on top of each other. He doesn’t seem to mind that their little contest has ended up with two winners at all. After all, did dressing up not allow Rob to touch his back? He enjoyed this!

‘It was a _bit_ , though, mate,’ says Rob, who’s still too young to value touching other boys’ backs over the amazingness of winning something. ‘I wanted to win! I thought I had this in the bag!’

‘All right. You’re right. There _should_ have been a winner. That elderly lady seemed very happy to see us, though, didn’t she? I think we made her day when we showed her our costumes earlier.’

‘That would explain why she burst out laughin’ when we left, then.’

Mark laughs out loud. He carefully gets up from the floor – still dressed in his catsuit – and tosses their votes into a trash bin next to the cash counter. There is no one there, and Mark briefly wonders if the owner of the joke shop ever gets angry at their employees for not chaining themselves to their cash desks. In a shop like this, it’s hard to imagine anyone getting angry.

‘This was nice, though, wasn’t it, Rob? Getting dressed up, I mean. I enjoyed it a lot.’ (Especially the bit when you pulled up my zipper, Mark thinks. But he isn’t going to mention it.) ‘And for what it’s worth, coming here made me forget about work for a couple of minutes, so that’s nice too. That’s what today is all about, isn’t it? Makin’ ourselves feel better about stuff.’

‘Well, I’m thrilled that me and my amazing costume have had that effect on you, Mark, but I’m gonna take this thing off now if you don’t mind . . .’

Rob struggles to get to his feet. He’s still wearing his costume too, so he has to ask Mark to help him. It’s extremely awkward for everyone involved. Rob can’t get up. He feels like he suddenly weighs a ton. The temperature rises. His legs struggle underneath the weight of the foam hand that surrounds his body.

Mark has no choice but to give Rob his hand. This makes things even worse. Rob’s legs turn into jelly at the touch of Mark’s warm hand in his. He turns red.

Mark does too. He desperately tries to make himself look more casual and “I touch other boys’ hands _all the time_ , you know”, but in doing so he accidentally yanks at Rob’s arm so hard that it hurts.

By the time Rob finally manages to get to his feet, his right arm has started hurting. His legs feel like jelly. The way the tight, uncomfortable foam costume has encaged his body gives him the impression that he’s in a hot, tropical country, not in Manchester. Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead.

‘I’m sorry about your arm,’ Mark mumbles when he sees Robbie rub his right arm.

‘Don’t worry about it, mate.’

Rob’s about to say something about how he’s grateful that Mark helped him get up, but the thought freezes in his mind. He sees something that sets the rest of their day in motion.

The phone starts ringing at the abandoned cash desk. Perfectly on cue, a member of staff appears out of nowhere. The seconds he sits down at the desk, the phone stops ringing as though it had never been ringing at all.

It gives Rob the best idea ever. He shoots Mark a mischievous look and forgets that he was supposed to feel awkward about Mark touching his hand. ‘Do you happen to know where Richard lives, Mark?’

The question catches Mark off guard. Unlike Rob, he’s still thinking about Rob’s hands and his fingers and the way Rob’s cheeks turned red when Rob pulled up his zipper. ‘No, but I suppose we could just look up his address in a phone book. Why?’

‘Because I know a way to get payback that doesn’t involve upsettin’ anyone.’

Mark swallows. He feels the same flutter of excitement he did when Rob whispered into his ear that morning and brought him here. ‘ _How_?’

Rob doesn’t say. ‘Get me to Richard’s house and I’ll show you.’

***

Mark’s older, but Rob’s more experienced. He has to show Mark how it’s done, from how they position their bodies on the ground to the excuses they’ll have to tell if it all goes wrong. Just one wrong step – one wrong finger pressed too soon – and Mark will get himself into the worst trouble he’s ever been in. There will be no going back from this.

It’s everything his date with Robbie Williams has been leading up to, and yet Mark couldn’t feel more scared. He doesn’t know if he actually wants this. Whether he’s ready. Whether he actually has it in him to be naughty.

He knows that he’s played innocent little pranks on people like Richard before, but never like this — never this publicly. If they get caught, that’s it. It’s over. Mark will have to say his job goodbye.

Mark nervously checks whether the coast is clear. An elderly lady with a bin bag in her right hand crosses the road just ahead, but she heads into the other direction and disappears behind a van. She’s not a threat. Other than a couple of birds in the trees above him, there’s no-one here. The street – an ordinary street in Greater Manchester, with brown terraced houses and green trees at either side – is completely empty apart from two infatuated pranksters.

Mark swallows, then gives Robbie the all-clear.

Rob has seen Mark’s signal. He nods. He raises his right hand slowly. His heart beats inside his throat as his index finger hovers above the large white doorbell on the brick wall. Above the doorbell, there’s a small, oval sign with Richard’s first and last names on it. Beneath that, another sign, contrastingly square and modern-looking, displays the house number: 22.

It’s always a lot easier to “knock and run” when the person living inside the house is just a number, but Rob’s victim isn’t a number this time. Rob’s done this a million times before, and yet it feels like the first time all over again. There’s a weight to it now. This is important to Mark, so it’s important to him too. He wants to get it right.

Rob takes a deep breath, then presses. The doorbell rings out in single, sharp chime.

He doesn’t wait for the door to open.

He sprints back across the old, damaged pavement. He doesn’t bother looking whether a car is coming. He dangerously crosses the street. Seconds later, he joins Mark in the bushes opposite Richard’s house, heart in throat. The birds in the tree overhead dart towards the sky the moment Rob sits down on the ground with a loud, painful _oomph_.

No-one has seen him do it.

They wait. An orange car passes in front of them. The elderly lady whom Mark saw two minutes ago comes back, without her garbage bag. A front door of a neighbouring house opens to reveal two young kids with sports bags strapped over their shoulders.

The children slowly make their way past Richard’s house, but Richard’s front door remains closed. The rush of adrenaline Robbie felt when he rang the doorbell runs out of him like a deflating balloon.

‘Richard isn’t at home,’ Rob surmises flatly.

‘Maybe he hasn’t heard? He could be watching those tapes he bought,’ Mark says. He bites his nails. He’s nervous. ‘Or maybe he’s the sort of person who doesn’t open the door for anyone . . .’

There’s an edge of disappointment to Mark’s voice that makes Rob’s tummy ache in the worst way. It was Robbie’s idea to come to Richard’s house and do some old-fashioned knocking and running (ringing someone’s doorbell and running away before the victim can see you), but they haven’t gone to a great start. Richard isn’t even at _home_. How are they ever going to prank someone who doesn’t have a desk, buys lewd VHS tapes, treats colleagues and shop owners like dirt and isn’t at home when Rob and Mark need him to be? It’s like pranking someone who doesn’t even exist.

Rob offers, ‘I could try again? You did say he’s usually at home at two.’

‘Richard’s always going on about how he doesn’t have to work on Mondays,’ Mark explains. Their hiding place, a small patch of ground behind a large flower bush on the pavement opposite Richard’s house, is as uncomfortable as it is inconspicuous. From here, they’re about ten metres removed from Richard’s front door; far away not to be seen by anyone on the other side of the street, but close enough to be able to make out the vague shapes of the furniture in Richard’s living room. ‘He likes making me feel bad by reminding me that he’s usually watching telly whilst I’m sat at work filling in forms and stuff. I’m not even meant to have the afternoon off today. I just got lucky this week.’

‘How so?’

‘One of my colleagues was sick last week so I had to cover for her on Saturday, my day off. My boss decided to compensate for it by giving me the afternoon off today.’

‘Isn’t he Richard’s dad? He doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘He’s all right. I don’t see him much. Richard’s pretty much his stand-in whenever he’s away on Fridays. Richard’s a lot worse.’

‘Do you think he knows? Your boss?’

‘About Richard bullying us?’ Mark shakes his head. When he absent-mindedly trails his fingers across the ground at his feet, he comes away with a layer of dirt that he ends up wiping on his trousers. He doesn’t want to have dirty hands if he and Rob end up touching again, so he keeps his hands folded in his lap, like he’s meditating. ‘I don’t think anyone’s ever mentioned it, no. We’re all too scared to lose our jobs.’

Rob’s mouth makes a punctuating _hum_. He continues to stare at the windows of Richard’s terraced house for a sign of movement. The house is on the corner of a street, meaning that Richard only has one neighbour. A large brick fence frames the house on all sides. The sun is still out, so the lights in the house are off.

The front garden, which has been laid with bricks and contains almost no flowers or bushes at all, looks like it hasn’t been looked at for years. A wheelie bin is the first thing people walking up to the house see. It’s almost as if Richard has made the very deliberate choice of making his house look as unappealing as possible.

Minutes pass. Nothing happens. No-one leaves or enters the house, and with the lights not being on and the little metal gate in front of the garden being closed, Rob is beginning fear that they’ve come here for nothing. It’d be a colossal waste of time if they stayed here when there are other things they could be doing, like kissing or holding hands.

But at the same time, Rob doesn’t want to give up either. He hasn’t been on an uncomfortable twenty-minute bus journey to a stranger’s house just to leave empty-handed. (The bus was very crowded, and Mark and Rob couldn’t even sit next to each other. When an elderly commuter left the bus at what felt like the twentieth bus stop, Rob quickly claimed her spot and told Mark to sit on his lap. Unfortunately, Mark didn’t seem keen; he turned very red and said he was okay with standing thank you very much.)

‘So I guess we’re gonna sit here for the rest of the afternoon?’ Rob asks, with an illustrative gesture at Richard’s house in front of him. ‘Unless you really hate this plan and desperately want to go home or something . . .’

Mark doesn’t say. He looks at his surroundings the way Mark Owen usually does, with a sort of curious spark in his eyes. The sun is shining. Birds are singing their spring songs in the trees up ahead. Next to the bushes that are supposed to shield the boys from the rest of the world, little flowers have popped up to show their purple and yellow petals. The patch of ground, while dirty, is quite comfortable.

What’s more, Mark’s legs don’t hurt even though they’ve been on the move all day. He feels blissfully at ease with himself and his body, highlighted by the texture of wet grass he feels underneath his palms. He could actually see himself sitting here for a while yet, just taking and _staring_ in the quietness of an empty Mancunian suburb. There’s something quite special and unique about every single house here, giving him enough things to look at when he isn’t trying to steal glances from Rob. (And sure, Mark knows that what they’re here for is wrong and a little awful and perhaps even quite illegal, but it doesn’t matter. He _likes_ being here. It’s precisely the sort of date he didn’t know he needed to go on.)

‘ _Do_ you hate this plan, Mark?’ Rob presses when Mark hasn’t spoken for ages.

Mark shakes his head. ‘I don’t. I like it. It’s a good plan. It feels like a picnic, you know. Except we haven’t got a picnic blanket.’

‘Or any food.’

‘Or any food,’ Mark reiterates, laughing. Then he remembers the bag of sweets in his tote bag. ‘Unless you’d like more jelly babies? You can finish the entire bag if you want. Wait, lemme just give it to you . . .’

Mark searches his Observer’s Bank tote bag for his bag of sweets. This has become quite difficult, for his tote bag is now filled with his scarf, an exercise book, four 12-inch records, his wallet and a bunch of prank paraphernalia that Rob goaded him into buying, including Rob’s beloved fish hat and something called a “smoke bomb” that Rob desperately wanted to have for some reason. (Mark wasn’t really planning on buying anything from the prank shop, but boys can be very convincing when they’re as cute as Robbie Williams. And he felt like it made up for the two of them scaring off potential customers in their hideous costumes.) 

At last, Mark finds the bag of sweets. He pulls it out. In doing so, he accidentally pulls his white scarf and exercise book along with it. They both land on the ground next to Robbie’s hands, ready for the taking.

Rob’s eyes automatically land on the exercise book. It’s blue. Gold polka dots adorn its cover. A small rectangular inscription label is filled with four words: “Lyrics and other stuff”. Several yellow and pink sticky notes pop up from the top of the pages like miniature bookmarks.

Even though the exercise book was kept in Mark’s bag along with today’s purchases, there are no imperfections to be seen. There are no scratches on the cover. Not a single page has been earmarked. This is a notebook that Mark has kept meticulously tidy, like he bought it two minutes ago. Rob wouldn’t expect anything less from a lad who works in a bank and folds up his clothes in a fitting room, but he also knows there must be a good reason the notebook looks like this. Whatever “Lyrics and other stuff” means, it must be important to Mark. The contents of this exercise book matter.

Mark sees Robbie looking. He blushes furiously and grabs his things from the ground. He shoves his white scarf back into his tote bag before giving his exercise book a brief inspection to make sure it hasn’t been damaged. He brushes the cover where little bits of dirt have ended up. He checks whether the sticky notes are still in place.

As Mark does all of this, he finds himself seriously questioning whether he should show Rob his lyrics. He does want to, because sharing his lyrics would be like sharing a little part of himself, but these songs _are_ personal. They’re everything Mark goes through in life and more, including all the really bad stuff he goes through at work. Does he really want to share that sort of thing with Rob already?

Then again — Rob already knows a lot about him anyway. He might as well take it a little further if he wants Rob to be his boyfriend one day.

‘Remember when I said I sometimes listen to love songs because they help me write my own?’

Rob nods. He remembers it quite clearly.

‘Well, this notebook contains the songs I was talking about. Not _all_ of them, obviously. I have about a million other notebooks at home. But this is the one I always bring with me to work. I try to write at my desk at least once a day.’

‘Aren’t you scared Richard will find out?’

‘I always make sure I hide my notebook underneath a pile of paperwork whenever he comes round to check on me. Richard usually doesn’t bother with paperwork unless he thinks he can tell me off about it, anyway.’

‘So these songs then –’ Rob has never written a song before. He’d like to, but he has no idea where to start. He imagines it’d be a lot like writing poetry. ‘They’re just lyrics, yeah? There isn’t any music to go with it?’

‘No music, but I sort of know how the song goes in my head. Like, melodically. My music teacher said my melodies are very good, actually. Though I’m sure he says that to everyone,’ Mark adds, ever the self-doubter.

But Rob is impressed. He’s never met anyone who’s good at anything before. ‘This really matters to you, doesn’t it, Mark?’

‘Very much. Yes. And not because some of these are love songs or because they’re about things that have happened to me, but because they’re _me_ , you know. They help me get over things and understand them a little bit more. They make me understand _me_ , in a way. That’s why it matters to me that I can keep going to those music lessons I was talking about. I don’t just write because I want to get famous one day or cos I want to become a good singer but because I need to get certain things off my chest.’ Mark blushes. He’s never told anyone about this before. ‘Does that make sense?’

Rob nods. It does. It’s why he wants to become a singer; when Rob sings, he feels more like himself than anywhere else. ‘It makes loads of sense, Mark. It’s why so many people listen to music, isn’t it? There’s always a singer out there who writes about stuff you’re goin’ through, except _you’re_ doin’ it the other way round. You know what I mean? _You’re_ the guy writin’ the songs. _You’re_ gonna be connectin’ to people one day. I think that’s really cool.’

Mark gives Robbie a humble smile. ‘Oh, I don’t know if I’m ever going to connect to people like that. My songs aren’t that good. You can read them, though, if you want . . .’

Rob looks at the exercise book with some apprehension. Given what they’re about to do – pranking someone, and running away from their house –, it almost seems improper to look at something so personal. He knows _he_ told Mark about not having any friends and that Mark similarly confided in him about Richard, but this is too much. He shakes his head.

‘I can’t, Mark. They’re your lyrics! It’d be like readin’ your diary!’

‘I know, but maybe I _want_ you to read my diary . . .’

Rob’s tummy does one of those silly little backflips that he doesn’t understand. He wishes he did, because he feels it every time Mark looks at him. He feels it every time Mark successfully flirts with him and confirms, for the dozenth time, that Rob has no idea how to flirt back. For that is what these lyrics are, in a way; they are Mark’s attempt to flirt with Rob. This is Mark’s stupid, subtle attempt to put all his trust into a person he’s known only for a day.

Rob makes a movement as though he wants to touch the notebook, then stops. ‘Are you _sure_ about this, Mark? I know nothing about lyrics. What if I say somethin’ wrong?’

‘You won’t.’

Rob looks at the notebook again. He feels a bit fearful when he remembers the red vinyl Mark bought in Manchester, the one with the lady on the front cover and all the suggestive-sounding song titles. ‘Your songs, are they —’ Rob doesn’t know how to say the word without turning red. ‘Are they songs inspired by _love songs_?’

Mark rolls his eyes. ‘They’re not songs about _sex_ , if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘That _is_ what I’m askin’.’

‘Well, they’re not. I only write songs about, you know, normal subjects. Life. Work. Love, sometimes. I once wrote an entire song about walking my dog . . . But I don’t write about _that_. I wouldn’t know how . . .’

Mark gently pushes the notebook into Rob’s hands. 'You can have a look, if you want. I mean, you don’t _have_ to. You can just say if you’re not interested.’

‘No, I am. I am! I just didn’t want to accidentally read something that’s not suitable for me eyes or somethin’.’

Mark snorts. ‘You won’t, trust me. Well, apart from my handwriting . . .’

Rob opens the notebook at a random page and sits more comfortably. He starts reading slowly. The combination of Mark’s handwriting, bad spelling and Robbie’s own dyslexia is making it quite difficult to get through, at first.

For the first couple of pages, Rob’s not sure what he’s meant to be looking for, if he’s meant to look for anything at all. On the surface, Mark’s lyrics are no more than the average teenage confessional. They range from simple stories about friendship and life to the deeper idiosyncrasies that make Mark tick inside, like his love for dogs or the childish, awe-inspired way he looks at the world. There’s nothing particularly juicy.

And while Rob genuinely doesn’t know anything about lyrics, he can tell that Mark’s aren’t very special. They’re promising but not much more than that. Mark still needs to learn how to describe his feelings properly, which Rob guesses is what the music lessons are for. If Mark were able to work with a proper songwriter for a couple of months, Mark would probably become quite good at it.

But there’s something else. Rob doesn’t notice it until he reads the eleventh song in Mark’s notebook, marked with a little green post-it in the shape of an arrow. Apart from the song about walking his dog and one sad little poem about what Rob guesses must be a former boyfriend or girlfriend, almost all his lyrics are about work. It’s vague, but it’s there. The thing that Mark Owen most needs to get off his chest is _work_.

‘In case you were wondering if I really wanted to be here,’ Mark explains when Rob’s fingers trace the lyrics of a song that is clearly inspired by last week’s events. It features quite a few scathing comments about Richard, which is saying something because Rob hasn’t heard Mark say anything bad about anyone. ‘I _do_ want to be here, you know. Richard – _work_ – they’re inside my head all the time. This is the only way I can get them out.’

Rob gives Mark a sad smile. He admires Mark for his honesty, but also his patience and resolve. If Rob had been in the same situation, he’d have left his job on day one. ‘Don’t you ever want to write about something else?’ (Meaning, ‘are you sure you don’t want to leave your job?’)

‘I do, sometimes. Like I said, I write love songs too, but it’s hard to focus on anything when I always feel scared inside. That’s why I bought that record with the lady on the front cover. I don’t just wanna write about sad things anymore.’

‘You could write about _me_ ,’ Rob offers quasi-seriously.

Mark blushes. He looks at his hands inside his lap. ‘I wouldn’t know where to start . . . ’

‘You could start by describin’ how impossibly handsome I am,’ Rob jibes. Then something at the other side of the street catches his eye. He stops talking to take a better look at it. ‘Hang on, is that your colleague over there?’

Mark takes a sharp intake of breath when he sees Richard Toole making his way towards his house on the other side of the street. In his hands, he’s carrying several shopping bags, including the ones he got at the record shop. Since, he’s been to two more clothing stores that Mark doesn’t recognise. Their names look premium and expensive.

Mark twitches when he sees Richard looking in their direction. He lowers himself towards the ground, terrified that Richard will spot him and fire him right here. He hears himself whispering things to the air: _Not a word. Don’t move a muscle._ He’s terrified.

Mark, of course, knows that Richard can’t see them from the other side of the street – the flower bushes are quite big, and Mark’s winter coat seems to blend into the background quite naturally –, but he’s still nervous. If Richard spots him after all, he can wave his job goodbye. He’ll have to find a job at another clothes shop — or worse, have no job at all because his CV is a patchy collection of five-week job he could barely keep because he didn’t have enough experience.

Knowing this, Mark watches quietly. He doesn’t want to give himself away. He holds his breath when Richard unlocks the small metal gate in front of his house and passes through it. He leaves it open. A second later, Mark sees Richard throwing something into a wheelie bin; a piece of paper, perhaps. Or a newspaper. Mark’s so concentrated that he doesn’t see Rob’s hands edging towards his leg in an attempt to give him a reassuring squeeze: _It’s going to be all right. What we’re doing is okay._

And it is, as far as Robbie is concerned. What they’re doing is absolutely justified.

Richard has made his way into his house and closed the front door. Rob shares his plan with Mark in a whisper. ‘So I was thinkin’, right . . . Richard will probably want to put all his bags away first. Put the kettle on, cut the tags from his clothes, pet his cat in his evil underground lair, that sort of thing. How ‘bout we wait for ‘im to settle down and then one of us goes up to ring the doorbell?’

Mark nods. That seems like a fair idea, especially because it means he won’t be seeing Richard for quite some time. ‘Okay. _You_ should do it, though. I’m too scared!’

‘It’ll feel better if you prank ‘im yourself, Mark.’

‘I know. But I’d like to watch you do it first, if that’s okay with you.’

‘There’s not much to it. This is literally the easiest prank in the world.’

But Mark doesn’t seem keen. He scrunches up his nose. ‘I think I’d rather wait a while. Just a couple of minutes. Maybe half an hour. But I’m not doing it until _you’ve_ done it again.’

Rob chuckles. It’s strangely satisfying to see Mark being this nervous. Apart from Mark’s red cheeks when Rob was zipping up his costume, Mark hasn’t been nervous much. And why should he? Mark’s the most handsome lad Rob’s ever met. He’s older. He’s clearly been on loads of dates already. But when it comes to pranks, Mark will always be one step behind.

‘So you’ll meet up with someone you’ve never met but you’re too scared to walk up to someone’s house? That’s interesting, Mark. Very interesting.’

Mark jabs Rob’s arm with his elbow. ‘Don’t say it like that! That’s really mean of you.’

Rob’s eyes twinkle with mischief. ‘Don’t say it _how_ , Mark?’

‘Like — I don’t know, like I’m a wimp or something.’

‘ _Are_ you?’

‘No! I’m not. It’s just — well, meeting up with _you_ was always going to be easier, wasn’t it? I actually _like_ you. I enjoyed talking to you. And I suppose I did feel scared inside when I was standing outside Observer’s Bank and I didn’t know if you were going to show up or not, but you did, didn’t you? You showed up. And you turned out to be quite handsome as well, which really helps, you know. It helps that you turned out the way you did. And I guess I always sort of knew, anyway. I always knew you weren’t going to turn out to be a really awful person. But Richard _is_ ,’ Mark adds when he realises he’s been going on about Robbie being an obviously wonderful person for far too long. ‘Can you _blame_ me for being nervous about pranking him? We could get caught and end up in an awful lot of trouble with his dad if we’re not careful . . .’

In the course of Mark’s monologue, Rob’s mouth has spread into a wide grin. He ignores the bit about Mark being nervous about their prank going wrong, which he doesn’t think will actually happen. ‘I know you’re nervous about prankin’ Richard, and I respect that, Mark, I really do, but I have to ask — will you think I’m even more handsome if I successfully prank your colleague and put him off from being a terrible bully for the rest of his life? Theoretically.’

Mark thinks about it seriously. ‘Maybe. I don’t know yet. I’d have to see first. But I suppose you _would_ be a little more handsome. But only a little.’

Rob grins. ‘Works for me.’

They wait. Ten minutes pass. In the small, rectangular living room window, Rob sees the vague, tall shape of Richard Toole moving through the house. A minute later, the window is opened. The thin white curtains at both sides of the window are drawn shut. Richard probably isn’t about to watch nature documentaries.

With Richard now unable to look out of the window, it’s the perfect time to ring the doorbell again. Rob gives Mark a wordless nod. He gets up slowly, waits for a delivery van to drive past, then crosses the road. It seems so simple, but it isn’t: the same silly heart palpitations that he felt earlier are back. His hands feel clammy and sweaty. He’s nervous, like Mark, but he mustn’t show it. In front of Mark Owen, Robbie wants to look like the bravest, most handsome lad on Earth.

Rob reaches the small metal gate in front of Richard’s house. He can step into the garden quite easily before giving Mark a carefree smile. He sidesteps over a loose tile in front of the wheelie bin and makes his way to the door.

_Crack!_

Something makes Rob stop. He’s stepped, quite noisily, on a small branch. In the corner of his eyes, he can make out a shifting silhouette behind the living room curtains. It must be Richard himself, moving towards the window as though he’s getting out of a chair.

Rob watches, frozen, as the white curtains shift. He knows that if Richard opens his curtains and looks out of the window, Richard will be staring right at him. Their mission will be over. They’ll have come here for nothing.

A second later, the silhouette moves away from the window. It sits down again. Richard must have decided that the sound of the snapping branch wasn’t worth investigating. Rob is safe, for now. He isn’t about to be spotted after all.

Rob waits for his heartbeat to slow before he makes his next move. He glances over his shoulder to see Mark’s nervous face popping up behind the flower bush on the other side of the road. It looks quite bizarre, but then again their entire day has been. Adding knocking and running to the list of things they’ve done isn’t even that much of a stretch.

Rob takes a deep breath. He raises his right hand slowly. His heart beats inside his throat as his index finger hovers above the large white doorbell on the brick wall. The number of the house – 22 – holds more meaning than it did when he rang the doorbell first.

He waits. Then presses. The bell rings out.

Rob makes a run for it, almost stumbling over the loose brick in the garden as he does. He nearly gets hit by a passing car on the road.

Seconds later, the front door opens. Rob can hide behind the flower bush opposite Richard’s house just in time, where a very pale Mark Owen has made himself as small as a mouse. He doesn’t dare speak.

Mark watches with baited breath. From his vantage point, he can see Richard fully opening his front door. He scans the area, looking left and right. He scratches the back of his head. He even looks over his brick fence to see if someone’s there.

Clearly, Richard is terribly confused. He makes a face as though he’s seriously questioning whether the sound of the doorbell was just a figment of his imagination. It wasn’t, but he doesn’t know that. To him, the doorbell ringing must be the strangest thing that has happened to him all day.

Next to Mark, Rob is trying his hardest not to burst out laughing. Mark doesn’t find it as funny – a part of him still feels guilty inside – but he does feel proud. Smug. It’s good to see Richard like this. It’s how Mark feels at work all day: lost and confused inside. Maybe Richard doesn’t deserve anything less.

Richard has one more look. He pops his head around the corner of his house, where his front garden leads to an equally unappealing backyard. He again looks over the brick wall, half-expecting a child to be waiting there for him. He even opens the wheelie bin, which elicits a loud chuckle from Rob that Mark ends up having to cover up with man-made bird noises when Richard glances in their direction.

Thankfully, Richard has no idea that he’s being watched. Still as confused, Richard slowly decides to make his way back to the house. He scratches the back of his head one more time, then steps over his threshold and closes the front door behind him.

The moment the front door closes, Rob bursts out laughing.

‘Did you see his _face_ , Mark? And when he checked the wheelie bin—!’ Rob’s momentarily disarmed by a laughing fit that makes his tummy ache. By the time he’s finished laughing, a full minute has passed. He has to wipe away the tears on his cheeks with the back of his hand. ‘Admit it, mate, that was worth it. That was totally worth the journey ‘ere.’

Even Mark can’t help but chuckle a little. ‘It _was_ good, wasn’t it? Yeah, I’m glad we did that.’

Whilst Mark didn’t find Richard’s confusion nearly as entertaining as Rob did, he does feel better than he has all month. It’s strangely therapeutic to see Richard being stitched up like that, as awful it sounds.

What’s more, it makes Mark want to do it again. He wants to see that deliciously confused look on Richard’s face over and over again. And sure, it may not make Richard realise what kind of bully is, and it won’t make Richard stop threatening Mark either, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the awful, tummy-twisting feeling of _pride that_ Mark felt just seconds ago.

‘We’re not just going to stop _there_ , though, are we?’ Mark says. He sounds like he’s trying to reign in his enthusiasm, but he doesn’t quite pull it off. Rob can tell how excited he is. ‘As in, we’re gonna have another go. Right?’

‘ _You_ still haven’t been,’ Rob points out.

Mark looks at the house. He _wants_ to do it, but he also finds the idea utterly terrifying. He doesn’t know how he’s ever going to get himself to leave their hiding place, let alone ring Richard’s door. ‘I don’t know, Rob. What if he sees me? What if he recognises _you_? You did talk to him earlier. That could get you into a lot of trouble. He could think you’re stalking him!’

Rob gives an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. ‘Do you really think he’s goin’ to remember me? A guy like Richard? He wasn’t even lookin’ at me when I talked to him in the record shop. He was more interested in those tapes he was buyin’ . . . I’ll be fine, trust me.’

‘All right, but what about me? How do I make sure he doesn’t see me?’

‘You run very fast and hope he doesn’t see you.’

‘That’s very reassuring, Rob, thank you. I feel so much better now.’

‘You’re welcome, Mark.’

But Mark is taking this very seriously. ‘Seriously, though, how do I make sure he doesn’t see me? Do I put on a disguise or something?’  

Rob hadn’t thought of that, but it’s actually not such a bad idea now that he thinks of it. With their only available disguises being the ugly fish hat in Mark’s tote bag and their own clothes, Rob quickly takes off his purple and blue jacket and offers it to Mark, exposing his red jumper in the process. ‘Put this on. You don’t really look like someone who wears stuff like this, so he won’t know it’s you. And you could pop on the hoodie as well,’ he adds, pointing an illustrative finger at the purple hoodie on the back of his jacket. ‘As far as disguises go, I think it’s pretty brilliant, if I do say so meself.’

Mark knows that Robbie is trying to solve a pretty big problem here, but it’s hard to focus when Robbie Williams is sat right next to him, wearing just his snug red jumper. Mark didn’t get the chance to look at it when they were putting on their costumes earlier.

But putting on Rob’s jacket as a _disguise_? No way. It’d be like they are boyfriend and boyfriend, sharing clothes after a sleepover. Or worse, sharing their clothes after a night of — no. Mark shakes his head.

‘Or I could just wrap me scarf round me face,’ Mark offers as an alternative.

‘Or you could wrap your scarf round your face and _look like a criminal, Mark_. Jeez. This is the perfect backup plan. There’s no way he’ll know it’s you.’

Mark genuinely dreads the prospect of putting Robbie’s jacket on, but there’s some logic in what Rob’s saying: in the event that Richard spots Mark after all, Mark _is_ going to need a disguise. Mark’s own coat and scarf, which Richard has seen before, won’t do. (Besides, there aren’t many lads in the area who share Mark’s height, hair and body type. He really _would_ be in a world of pain if Richard spotted him.)

‘ _Fine_ ,’ Mark gives in at last. He quickly takes off his coat and puts on Rob’s jacket before anyone can accuse him of taking off his clothes in front of a _boy_. He does it in such a hurry that he nearly ends up putting on the jacket the wrong way round.

(Meanwhile, Rob is trying his hardest not to make another joke about Mark’s work uniform. How Mark still manages to look sexy in it, he has no idea.)

After a brief struggle, Mark finally puts on Rob’s jacket the right way round. The moment his arms slip through the thin cotton sleeves, he smells a mix of washing powder and cheap cologne. He feels a strange prickle in his tummy when he realises that the jacket fits him like a glove. The material is warm: he can still feel Rob’s body temperature heat up his own body.

‘And? What do you think?’ Mark tries to look as casual as he can. He zips up the jacket and shoves his hands inside its pockets.  

‘You don’t look like you’re about to do something potentially very problematic at all, mate. It’s the best disguise ever.’

Mark looks down at his own chest. It looks extremely purple and not inconspicuous at all. ‘Are you sure? I feel like I actually look _more_ suspicious now . . .’

‘Maybe, but he won’t recognise you, that’s for sure. Especially if you put up the hoodie, mate.’

Mark obediently puts up the hoodie. In doing so, he smells more of Rob: more washing powder, more shampoo. Mark tries to block it out with a series of non-violent thoughts about tripping Richard over, which in turn makes him feel incredibly guilty. He tries to focus on the task at hand. ‘So what do I do now? Do I just walk up to his house, ring the doorbell and run?’

‘That’s . . . literally it, mate, yeah. Have you not done this before, or what? I thought you’ve done this before.’

Mark shakes his head.

‘ _Jeez_ , Mark. Did you have a really rough early childhood or something?’

‘Not as far as I know, no. I was pretty happy, when I was young. Though I suppose we did lose our dog when I was fourteen, which was quite traumatising. And I could have been playing football at a professional level and made a lot of money for my parents by now, but then I had this really bad injury and everyone told me I could never play professionally anymore. That wasn’t nice. I cried for weeks.’

‘But you were never . . . naughty, when you were young?’ Rob asks, keen to get to the point. (Does Mark always talk so much? Jesus.)

Mark thinks about it seriously. ‘I did kiss a girl in a bike shed once, now that you mention it. My mum got very angry and grounded me for a couple of days.’

‘That’s _—_ not really what I was talkin’ about, but thank you for that image, mate.’ Rob pinches the bridge between his eyes as though he’s physically trying to get rid of the mental picture of Mark kissing a _girl_ in a _bike shed_. It doesn’t quite work (he keeps picturing _himself_ kissing Mark in a bike shed instead, which in turn is making him go very fuzzy and funny inside), so he tries to remember what they were talking about before Mark started rambling about his childhood. ‘So pranking Richard — you still up for this, then?’

‘I suppose so, yeah.’

‘And you know what you need to do?’

‘Walk up to his house, ring the doorbell and run, in that order. I think.’

Rob makes a face as though there’s nothing he could possibly add. Mark is ready, more or less. ‘Well — good luck, I suppose! Try not to get caught and stuff. I’ll be here if you need me.’

Mark gets up from the ground slowly. He brushes the dirt off the back of his trousers and goes over the same three words over and over in his head, like a mantra: _Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught. Don’t get caught_.

The mantra only makes Mark feel worse. With Rob’s hood on, he feels like a criminal. He feels like he’s about to do something absolutely terrible, like burgle someone or steal an old woman’s purse.

Regardless, Mark keeps going. He walks into Richard’s front garden without a sound. He doesn’t dare breathe. He avoids the branch Rob stepped on earlier.

At last, he’s made it to the front door. So far, so good. His heart is racing against his chest. He feels light in the head. A sensation like motion sickness takes over him. He wants to throw up. A stomach ache plagues him as if he were sick, and Mark desperately wishes he’d feel butterflies there instead. He loved the way Rob made his stomach twist up inside like he was on a rollercoaster. He loved the tingle he felt when Rob touched his hand.

But what he’s feeling right now? It’s terrible. It _hurts_. If this is what pranking someone feels like, then Mark doesn’t know what Rob gets out of it. There must be better ways to make yourself feel good, like writing a song or playing football or helping an old lady cross the road even though you’re already running late for work. All of those things are much better than this, standing in someone’s front garden, about to stitch them up.

But it needs to be done. Mark _wants_ to do it, deep down. He can’t ignore the pride he felt when he saw Richard leave his house earlier. He can’t pretend he didn’t feel good inside when he saw the look on Richard’s face.

This time, Mark wants to be responsible for that look of confusion himself — but first, a button needs to be pushed.

Mark swallows. He looks over his shoulder to see Robbie giving him a thumbs-up. From up here, he can see that Robbie has stuffed all his things into the white plastic bag he got at the record shop. In the event they need to make a run for it, Mark’s Observer’s Bank tote bag is probably going to look extra suspicious.

Seeing Rob from the other side of the road doesn’t make Mark less nervous, but he does feel a strange sort of comfort inside; the sort of comfort you experience when you know there’s someone waiting for you at home. The _warmth_ when you come home after a long day at work, depressed and rain-drenched, and tea is already on the table.

Robbie Williams makes Mark feel perfectly at ease, and at the same time, Robbie doesn’t make him feel good at all. Robbie makes Mark nervous. Robbie makes Mark second-guess every single thing he does, from the way he talks to the way he smiles. Just hearing Rob’s voice makes Mark want to touch his hands; his fingers; the small of his back where it curves into his arse. Mark wants to get to know Rob in a way he’s never gotten to know a boy before, romantically or intimately. But most of all, Mark wants to prove Rob that he can do this. That he’s brave.

And he is.

A rush of disastrous bravery makes Mark press the button and ring the doorbell. He doesn’t realise he’s done it until it’s already too late.

He knows he ought to move, but he doesn’t. He freezes. His arms and legs turn into heavy, solid matter.

From the other side of the road, Rob’s shouting at him to get a move on. Mark hardly hears it. The blood that has rushed to his ears makes the words impossible to make out. The only thing he hears is white noise and the panicky staccato of his own thoughts when he sees a moving silhouette behind the living room curtains.

Time stops.

Mark takes in a sharp intake of breath when he sees the white curtains in front of the windows move. Underneath the buzzing in his ears, he thinks he can make out the muffled sound of footsteps.

In a fraction of a second, Mark pictures the rest of his life in his mind’s eye: the door opening. Richard seeing him. Getting fired, or worse. Then the drama that follows. Not having a job. Not being able to afford any music lessons. His precious songs, never becoming more than the lyrics on the pages in his songbook.

Something deep inside puts Mark’s body back into motion.

He moves away from the door. He walks, then runs. He moves his body as fast as his short legs can carry him. He can already see Robbie on the other side of the road, urging him to keep going.

He’s so glad to see Robbie’s face that he doesn’t spot the loose brick in the garden.

Mark trips over the brick before he can blink. He lands on the ground face-first. A sharp pain shoots through his knees. He tears open his hands where they hit the dirty pavement. He feels a wetness on his palms.  

Mark frantically tries to get up, but it’s already too late. Richard has opened the door and spotted Mark’s body on the ground.

He freezes instantly.

‘Who the hell are _you_?’

Mark wouldn’t be able to respond even if he wanted to. A rush of terror has rendered him speechless.

‘Show yourself, you _crook_!’

Mark tries to think. He knows Richard can’t recognise him from this angle – Mark’s lying face-first on the ground, with Rob’s hood still covering the back of his head –, but he knows he can’t stay here either. He’ll have to get up and make a run for it before Richard can pull the hood from his head.

There’s just one problem: Mark _can’t_. He physically can’t. His knees have locked. His arms won’t move. It’s like he’s been glued to the ground.

It’s quite obvious that their silly little adventure is over. He might as well sit up now, lower his hood and tell Richard it’s him. It’d be the honest thing to do, for there’s no way he’s going to get out of this otherwise. At least if he’s honest, he won’t have to deal with Richard when he gets to work on Friday because he won’t have a job anymore.

Mark gets up slowly. It hurts. His hands are bleeding. He’s about to turn around and lower his hood when he sees something being thrown into the front garden. He doesn’t know what the object is. It looks vaguely like the smoke bomb Rob bought at the prank shop an hour ago, which can only mean—

Mark can put his fingers into his ears just in time. A moment later, the smoke bomb explodes with a loud _bang_. Within less than two seconds, the garden is filled up with thick smoke, providing the distraction Mark needs.

Pain shoots through his legs when Mark gets up and makes a run for it. He doesn’t know how he manages it.

Behind him, Mark can hear Richard suddenly slamming his front door shut and chasing after him. Richard’s quick, but Mark is quicker. He has already made his way to the other side of the street before the smoke can clear. He reaches Robbie’s hiding place within seconds. All it takes is a single _word_.

‘Run!’

Rob doesn’t need to be told twice. He quickly picks up the plastic bag that he filled with Mark’s stuff earlier, and they run like their lives depend on it, with Richard shouting threats at them.

By now, Mark is so pumped up with adrenaline that the threats have become meaningless. They’re no more than air: empty and hollow.

They make a beeline towards the other side of the street. Richard follows them blindly. The same elderly woman they saw earlier tuts and wags her disapproving finger at her when they run past her, muttering something about “the youth of today”. A different Mark Owen would have stopped to apologise for running in public, but not this time.

This time, all Mark cares about is making it to the end of the street without being recognised.

They’ve been running for a full minute. Mark and Robbie are quick, but Richard’s legs are a lot longer. He’s beginning to catch up with them.

_‘Hey!’_

_‘Come back here!’_

_‘I’m gonna call the police!’_

The strain of Mark’s knees is making him slower. He’s tired. It feels like the world is about to slip away from him, but he can’t stop. He can’t look over his shoulder, ever. If he does, he can wave his job goodbye; an attractive prospect, now that he’s being chased, but not what he wanted their prank to lead up to. He needs to keep going.

‘We need a plan!’ Mark gasps.

‘I know. _Here_!’

Right on cue, Rob spots an empty back alley on his left and pulls right Mark into it. They wait. They daren’t speak. Seconds later, Richard rushes straight past the alleyway and heads into a different direction, towards the edge of the town. His threats fade away until the only thing Mark can hear is the pulse in his right ear.

‘Is he gone?’ Mark can’t help but ask.

Rob puts Mark’s plastic bag on the ground and places his finger to his lips. He carefully peeks around the corner of the alleyway to see whether the coast is clear, and it is: he looks in both directions, but he doesn’t see Richard anywhere. Mark’s colleague must have followed the street they were on originally, not knowing that the lads he so desperately wanted to catch had found a hiding place.

He nods. They’re safe. Mark breathes a deep sigh of relief.

‘Thank God.’

They stay in the alleyway to catch their breaths. They don’t speak in case Richard comes back to retrace his own steps after all.

The alley must be only one or two metres across, with brick walls at either side. Next to Rob, there’s a locked door leading into a stranger’s back garden. If you look up, you can just about make out the top floor of the house, with tiny rectangular windows and a decorative balcony.

On the ground, the remaining sweets from Mark’s pick ‘n mix bag have spilt out over the tiles like the blood on Mark’s hands. A neighbourhood cat is perched on top of one of the walls, looking down at Robbie suspiciously. A rusty-looking bicycle lies on the ground, neglected. Next to it, there’s a deflated football that a child once forgot.

Mark can _see_ all of these very different objects in front of him, but he’s not able to process them fully. He’s still reeling from the chase: Richard’s threats; the pain in his knees; the way he felt when he was lying face-down on the pavement, about to be caught.

Mark wishes he could say the prank has given him a sense of accomplishment and pride, but it hasn’t. Right now, it feels like he’s just done something very dangerous indeed.

Even Robbie doesn’t look as victorious as he should. He’s leaning against one of the brick walls, his right hand on his chest as he tries to stay his heartbeat. He looks tired. His mouth is half-open. His eyes aren’t twinkling like they usually are after the end of a prank. His chest moves up and down in his tight red jumper. His hands are sweaty but soft, unlike Mark’s: when Mark very bravely and very suddenly grabs Rob’s hand as if needing something to hold on to, Rob can still feel the wounds the ground left on him. It makes Robbie painfully aware of how disastrous their prank was.

‘I wish I’d brought Band-Aids,’ Rob whispers. He never thought they’d get chased like that, let alone get injured.

‘It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt,’ Mark says, even though feeling Robbie’s palm against his own makes the wounds on his hands sting like miniature wasps on his skin. He keeps holding Robbie’s hand regardless, terrified that if he lets go he’ll find himself somewhere where he doesn’t want to be.

‘Still. This probably isn’t what you had in mind when you agreed to meet up with me,’ Rob says. Like Mark, he doesn’t feel a sense of accomplishment either. He wishes he could feel victorious, but he doesn’t, yet. He won’t feel victorious until the high of the chase has faded and the memory of seeing Mark on the ground is replaced by the image of Richard’s face when he left the house the first time. ‘Perhaps we should have gone on an ordinary first date after all. Like, go on a walk through the park, that sort of thing.’

Mark chuckles weakly. ‘Maybe. I’ve had worse first dates, though. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. But a walk through the park sounds nice.’

Mark is trying to sound airy and light, but Rob can tell by the little tilts at the end of his sentences that Richard scared him terribly. He wishes he knew how to apologise for ever suggesting they come here.

‘I shouldn’t have pushed you to prank Richard like that. I’m so sorry, Mark.’ Rob looks at Mark’s small hands in his, covered in dried blood. It looks worse than it is, but it makes Rob awful inside. He should have seen this coming from a mile off. ‘When you said it doesn’t hurt – it does, doesn’t it?’

Mark looks down. He gives a sad nod of his head that makes Robbie feel terrible inside.

Something instinctual makes Robbie raise Mark’s right hand to his mouth. He places a soft, chaste kiss on Mark’s palm and closes it. Then he does the same to Mark’s other hand, the one that was most damaged during the fall.

‘There, I’ve cured you,’ Rob says, like it’s some sort of blessing. ‘You are cured.’

The gesture is so ridiculously sweet that Mark can’t help but let out a nervous laugh. ‘I hurt my knees too if you feel like kissing those?’

Even when he’s being flirted with, Rob doesn’t miss a beat with his jokes. ‘I think it’s a bit early in our relationship for that, Mark. Besides, I’m so knackered I don’t think I’ll be able to get up again if I try to kiss your knees . . .’

Mark laughs. He’s transported to a world where he didn’t almost get caught pranking someone; a world where, if he closes his eyes, it’s just him and Rob, looking at each other nervously because something in the air has shifted. With just a single kiss on Mark’s palm, the boys have stopped thinking about their disastrous prank completely.  

‘You’re right, we should probably get to know each other first,’ Mark whispers, hyperaware of the touch of Rob’s hands in his. They’re so soft that Mark can’t stop thinking about all the other things that make Rob soft: his fingers; his soft green eyes; his red, woolly jumper; those delicious pink lips as they part to let out another burst of air.

He knows it sounds mad, but Mark wants to feel that same burst of air on his skin. He wants it to leave a tingle on his mouth when he stands on his tiptoes and tilts his head so that Rob can kiss him. He wants to run his damaged hands up and down Rob’s arms as they make out in a dirty, neglected alleyway in an unfamiliar town in Manchester.

It’d be the best first kiss either of them has ever had, if they’ve ever kissed someone at all.

In reality, things are much less romantic. It happens quite dramatically. When Rob sees Mark suddenly raising himself up on his tiptoes and puckering his lips, he completely panics. Everything he knows about kissing leaves his brain. He doesn’t know what to do.

Rob very quickly turns his head, and Mark’s mouth accidentally ends up on his cheek!

‘ _Oh_. Oh dear.’

Robbie’s sudden brain freeze ruins everything. Mark takes it the wrong way. He utters a sound of disappointment that makes Rob feel terrible inside.

Immediately understanding that turning his head was a massive mistake, Rob frantically tries to explain what happened. His heart has started hammering like mad. ‘I’m so sorry, Mark, I don’t – I didn’t –’

But Mark thinks he understands. He interrupts Rob’s explanation to needlessly apologise for daring to kiss someone on their first date. He assumes Rob must not have wanted to kiss him back.

‘No, you’re right,’ Mark begins to say. ‘I should have asked for permission before making a move on you like that. Your kiss on my hand made me think we were headed towards a “first kiss” sort of moment, but we obviously weren’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d wanna kiss me back like that. It was silly of me. I should have waited.’

Mark’s waterfall of words is making it very hard for Rob to interrupt. Mark goes on for another minute, vomiting one apology after another until he stops to catch his breath and Rob finally finds an opening to interject. He gives Mark’s hands a quick, reassuring squeeze before Mark can utter another word.  

‘Mark, mate — I didn’t turn me head because I don’t want to kiss you back but because _I don’t know how!_ I literally do not know how to kiss someone on the mouth.’

Mark blinks. Then the penny drops. ‘ _Oh_. Oh, my.’

Robbie blushes. ‘Yeah.’

‘You’ve never kissed someone?’

‘Yeah, mate.’

‘Ever?’

‘You don’t have to rub it in, Mark. We don’t all look like attractive male models like _you_.’

Mark laughs. He feels their awkwardness fade away as quickly as it arrived. What a strange day this has been, with him feeling about five different emotions in just as many minutes. First, there was the excitement of pranking his colleague; then the terror when it went all went wrong; the tired, guilty comedown in the alleyway; the delicious spark that Mark felt when he tried kissing Rob on the mouth and failed, and now _this_ , whatever this is. Normally Mark would have hated feeling so many conflicting emotions in a single afternoon, but he guesses it isn’t so bad when the one common thread is Robbie Williams.

‘Still. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask.’ Mark shuffles his feet. Again, he feels simultaneously excited and nervous inside: excited that he came extremely close to kissing Rob two minutes ago; nervous because a next attempt will probably be even scarier. Now that he knows Rob has never kissed someone before, Mark feels a pressure like no other. His first kiss with Rob needs to be the best first kiss anyone’s ever had — and it probably isn’t going to be perfect if they do it in a location like this.

‘I suppose it’s better that you didn’t have your first kiss here, anyway,’ Mark says.

‘Why?’

Mark makes an illustrative gesture at the brick walls around them. Everywhere he looks, there’s imperfection: the deflated football, the rusty bicycle, the sweets that can no longer be eaten because they’ve spilt out of Mark’s pick ‘n mix bag. ‘You don’t really want to have your first kiss in _an alley_ , do you?’

‘You had _yours_ in a bike shed,’ Rob points out.

Mark bites his tongue. The kiss in the bike shed was, in fact, Mark’s second or third, but Rob makes a fair point. It doesn’t really matter where you kiss someone as long as it feels good and you both want it. If Mark’s lips had ended up on Rob’s mouth after all, Mark probably wouldn’t have minded being an alley either, with a stranger’s cat witnessing their every move. He wouldn’t have minded that his bully from work is still out there somewhere, searching the streets and alleyways of his hometown for the crook in the purple jacket. Mark would have found it all terribly exciting.

‘I suppose you’re right, in a way,’ Mark begins to say. He thinks about his real first kiss, the one he stole from a tall lad when he was fourteen. The other guy was seventeen, and they were in his a garage. If he thinks about it, he can still recall the scent of oil that penetrated the air when he was kissed. He can still hear the sound of a car being spray-painted in the background. The kiss was nice, in the end, but the garage wasn’t. ‘The place doesn’t really matter, does it? Not really, anyway.’

Rob nods a bit too enthusiastically. He feels a strange sense of anticipation bubble inside his tummy when he sees Mark looking at his mouth again. It’s like his body already knows that it’s about to do something it’s never done before. Mark knows it too: _The place doesn’t really matter in the end_ – meaning, I wouldn’t mind if we had our first kiss here after all.

‘It’s the way you actually _do_ the kissin’ that matters, right?’ Rob says. He tries to sound like he talks about kissing all the time even though he has genuinely no idea how people do it. ‘It’s about how you move your head and so on. Where you place your hands, that kind of stuff.’

‘It’s not _that_ complicated,’ Mark shrugs. Again, he brings back to mind his first kiss with the lad in the garage. It sort of just _happened_ : one moment they were talking about cars, the next Mark very suddenly lifted himself up on his tiptoes and kissed the guy. The only thing that made the kiss slightly awkward is that Mark nearly forgot to breathe, which is a pretty good piece of advice now that he thinks about it. ‘You just need to remember to breathe,’ he tells Rob as much.

Mark means the piece of advice well, but it doesn’t reach Rob that way. Unintentionally, Rob starts picturing all the ways kissing someone could potentially go wrong: forgetting how to breathe, yes, but also putting his hands in all the wrong places. Getting caught by Richard Toole. Not knowing what to do with his tongue, if Mark’s into that sort of thing. Forgetting to close his eyes and looking like an idiot. ( _Should_ he close his eyes? He has literally no idea. The people in the movies always close their eyes when they kiss someone, but don’t you _want_ to see the person you’re kissing? It seems so strange.)

Rob asks, just to make sure. ‘Would that be a serious problem, then, Mark? If I forgot how to breathe and stuff?’

‘Probably. We don’t want you to pass out or something, do we? But I don’t think that’s ever happened.’

‘Hasn’t it?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Robbie doesn’t feel reassured at all. He’s absolutely convinced he’s about to get this very wrong indeed. ‘I feel like I’m the least experienced person in the world when it comes to relationships,’ he pouts.

‘You don’t _have_ to be.’

Mark’s blue eyes flick up at Rob with a mix of confidence and fear. He may have kissed boys and girls before, but never like this. Not in an alleyway, minutes after he’s pranked one of his colleagues. He has absolutely no idea whether it’ll be a short, chaste kiss on the lips or the sort of rushed, desperate kiss you reserve for the edge of your bed because it always, inevitably, leads to more.

But Robbie’s still thinking about how inexperienced he is. He wishes they were talking about pranks and jokes again. That way, he’d know what they were talking about. He _knows_ his pranks. He knows most joke and fancy dress shops like the back of his hand. He knows what it takes to prank someone like Richard Toole, but he knows nothing about kissing.  

‘What do you mean . . . _I don’t have to be_?’ Rob gives Mark a worried look. ‘I’m still inexperienced, Mark. I’m not suddenly goin’ to be amazing at this stuff.’

‘I know. That’s exactly what I’m sayin. Don’t you remember how you taught me how to forget about work by dressing up? Or how you showed me I could stand up to someone like Richard? I can do that too! I can teach you how to kiss. I can _show_ you.’ Mark pauses to study Rob’s terrified green eyes. He sees none of the mischiefs those eyes held earlier, and yet Rob couldn’t look more beautiful. This is the face of a lad who’s about to make a wonderful, life-changing discovery. ‘Cos I’ve wanted to kiss you since we met, you know. I know it probably sounds silly, but the moment we met . . . the moment I saw you, I knew we were heading to this. I just knew.’

Rob knows exactly what Mark is talking about. He felt it too, the moment he heard Mark’s voice on the phone. ‘Like . . . love at first sight or something?’

‘Maybe. Yeah. Like love at first sight,’ Mark reiterates fondly.

‘So you wouldn’t rather wait? Cos I wouldn’t mind _not_ waitin’, if you know what I mean . . .’

Mark’s mouth spreads into a wide grin. He feels the same butterflies when he and Rob first met, multiplied. Never mind the pranks and the fancy dress and running away from Richard Toole in a street they’ve never been in; this is what they were destined to do, always.

And this time, Rob doesn’t panic. He doesn’t turn his head or watch, petrified, as Mark lifts himself up on his tiptoes and tilts his head. This time, Rob’s eyes flutter closed the moment Mark’s do. The gasp that leaves his mouth is perfectly timed; it hits Mark’s mouth like a little burst of air the moment Mark kisses his lips.

It’s the softest, warmest thing Rob has ever felt. He feels a wave of warmth and love. He becomes light in the head when he smells Mark’s fruity cologne. His mouth tingles where Mark’s lips touch his. He feels something dark and strange inside when he remembers that Mark is still wearing his jacket: that ugly, purple fashion disaster that somehow fits Mark perfectly, like the small, damaged hand running up and down his back. And when Mark increases the pressure and parts his lips, Rob knows just what to do. They kiss like it’s the thousandth kiss they’ve ever shared, not the first.

They don’t know how long it lasts. It could be a minute or an eternity. In the background, still perched on a brick fence, a cat watches them quietly. Birds flutter overhead, singing a marvellous song that sounds like love. Three minutes ago, Richard returned back home, none the wiser as to who tried pranking him.

It’s a tremendous first kiss with just the right amount of love and warmth, but it eventually has to end. They break apart. They grin. Rob traces the parts of his mouth where Mark kissed him best: the bottom of his lip; the corner of his mouth that still tingles when Rob touches it. If he concentrates, he can still feel the ghosts of Mark’s hand on his back.

The kiss is everything Rob ever imagined it to be, and yet it’s even better. He vaguely knew that first kisses are meant to make you feel good, but he could never have known that a kiss would make you float like this. He could never have imagined it’d be _this_ good, with his head still swimming in the scent of Mark. If he could, he’d do it all over again till the sun comes down.

Like Rob, Mark’s grinning from ear to ear. There’s a gorgeous red flush on his cheeks. There’s that familiar _smile_ that is reserved only for the loveliest people in the universe: people like Rob, whose cheeks have similarly flushed. He feels giddy inside as though he’s just eaten his entire bag of sweets.

The giddiness that Mark is feeling is making it hard to talk. He doesn’t know what to say other than a nervous, questioning ‘ _And_. . . ?’ even though he knows the answer already. He felt it himself when Robbie pulled him closer and parted his lips. The answer came to him when Robbie placed his hands on his sides and held him there. Robbie enjoyed this. They both did.

Robbie feels like he ought to discuss their kiss regardless. ‘Wow. Mate. The way you kissed me . . .  and the way _I_ put me hands on your sides . . . flippin’ hell. Would it be really predictable if I said I loved that, Mark? I loved it. You’re a very good kisser. Your mum should be proud.’

Mark snorts. ‘Cheers, Rob.’

‘I’m serious, though.’ Even though he’s still on cloud nine after having been kissed so expertly, Rob also wants to have a serious conversation about it. He _needs_ to if he ever wants to make sense of these wonderful, fluttery feelings that he’s never experienced before. ‘Does kissing _always_ feel like this? Like, I’ve _seen_ people kissin’ in movies and on TV and stuff, but the movies don’t really prepare you for how it _feels_ , do they? That felt really nice. But I suppose it always does. Right? That felt amazing.’

Mark’s not so sure about kisses always being nice. He’s had plenty of bad kisses (some as recently as six months ago, when a stranger decided to push her mouth on his), but he does know kissing Rob was special. Different. As ridiculous as it sounds, kissing Rob was one of the best things he’s done all year.

‘I don’t know, to be honest. There are also kisses that are a little less pleasant. But I guess kissing will always be a little better when it’s with the right person. Everything is, in a way.’

This is something Rob has never considered before. He knows about the concept of love at first sight and “fate” and all that, but he always thought it was something that had been invented by moviemakers. He dares to ask whether that is what they are, then; the right people, made for each other in the stars because it was foretold that they would one day meet. ‘ _Are_ we, Mark? The right people?’

Mark smiles. He knew what they were from the moment he saw Robbie in his purple and blue jacket: the same jacket Mark is still wearing now, with its soft, buttery material perfectly shaped around his body as though it was made for him. He’s not sure if what happened in front of Observer’s Bank was love at first sight, but he does know he’ll probably feel nothing like it ever again, as strange as it sounds. He’s only seventeen, and yet he _knows_. He knows.

‘Honestly, Rob? I think we might be.’ Mark reflects on the words that just left his mouth. He says the words again, with more conviction: ‘Yeah. I think we are. We’re the right people.’

‘Seriously? You’re not just sayin’ that cos you wanna be nice and stuff?’

Mark looks at the ground for a moment. With their surroundings being less than perfect, he wants to get this right. He doesn’t want the _fear_ he felt ten minutes ago to cloud how deeply in love with Robbie he is already. The high of the prank may fade in a couple of days, but the high of the kiss won’t.

‘I know we’ve only just met and that we don’t really know each other, but the way you made me forget about Richard and work and taught me how to prank someone . . . that’s special, you know. I’ve been walking on eggshells ever since I started my job at the bank, but then _you_ came around and I didn’t feel scared anymore. I think . . . I think that means something. I didn’t just feel better cos I was getting dressed up or because I finally found a way to prank my colleague, I felt better cos I was doing those things with _you_. You’ve made me feel absolutely amazing inside.’

Robbie knows exactly what Mark is talking about. A couple of hours ago, Robbie couldn’t even remember what it felt like to have a mate. He thought having a mate meant being deserted by people. That it meant putting up a wall for anyone he sees. But with Mark, he’s felt more at ease than ever. With Mark, he has been utterly himself.

‘I know what you mean, Mark. I haven’t had a mate like you for years! Most people I try to befriend just end up leavin’ me . . . Not that I think of you as just a _friend_ friend, if you know what I mean.’

Mark laughs.

Rob goes on, ‘But you’ve made _me_ feel better too, if what I’m sayin’. You’ve made me realise that it doesn’t matter if I like pranks or if you’re me only mate. And I feel kinda smug cos we’ve just had this amazing kiss while your colleague’s probably still wonderin’ who pranked ‘im . . .’

‘The prank _was_ quite nice, wasn’t it?’ Mark says, with an adorable grimace that suggests he feels awful admitting it. ‘I do think I saw my life flash before my eyes when I tripped and Richard walked out of the front door, though. That wasn’t very nice.’

‘Same here, Mark. I was about to start prayin’ for you and everything!’

‘Oh dear. Was it that bad?’

‘It did look pretty dramatic from where I was hidin’, yeah, mate. A bit funny, as well.’

Mark shakes his head in an amused manner. He still can’t believe all of those things actually happened — let alone that he managed to live through them. He probably won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight.

Meanwhile, Rob’s already thinking about their next prank. He begins to speak very enthusiastically. ‘I’m not entirely sure I’d leave it at this, though, Mark. I know that bein’ chased by Richard was pretty scary, but think of all the other things we could prank him with! We could still head to the local supermarket and buy a bunch of eggs to throw at his house or something if you’re not satisfied . . .’

Mark gives Robbie a judgmental look.

‘Is that a “no” to eggin’ Richard’s house?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not even a small egg? A quail’s egg! You know I’ll do anything if it comes to a prank . . .’

But Mark’s already had his fair share of pranks. In a way, he’s already won, whether their pranks were successful or not. The way he kisses Rob’s lips next is satisfactory enough for him, with his arms wrapped around Robbie’s waist like it’s the one victory he desperately needed: not a silly prank or a thoughtless joke, but a warm, mind-blowing kiss a bully could only ever dream of.

They spend the rest of the afternoon wrapped in each other’s arms.

♪

When Robbie comes home that Monday night, alone, he feels like a changed person. He looks giddy and happy when he kicks off his shoes and saunters into the living room. He can’t help but hum a cheerful tune when he remembers that Mark promised him he’d call him after work tomorrow.

Even his mum can see the change in Rob: when Robbie starts talking about his day has been, she can tell that her son has fallen in love with the boy he was seeing.

After his mum has congratulated him on making a new friend and sternly reminded him that he’s still grounded for three days for going on a date instead of _going to school like he was supposed to_ , Rob blissfully retreats to his room. There, the first thing he sees is the boys’ magazine he was reading earlier, spread open on a six-page article about pranks.

Seeing the magazine and the prank that he circled with red ink makes Rob feel mischievous inside. He knows he promised Mark that he’d stop pranking Richard, but surely _one_ more prank wouldn’t hurt?

And anyway, the prank he circled – something to do with sticky notes, stuck all over a victim’s favourite object like a car or a desk computer – is pretty harmless, as far as he’s concerned. It’s not like it’d involve Mark tripping over again and potentially losing his job. It wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless sticky notes is something people get very upset about. If he does it well, he might actually just get away with it.

Spurred on by the happy memories of the day’s events, Rob makes an enthused attempt at getting together the things he’ll need for his final prank: sticky notes, glue, pens, pieces paper, and so on. Mere minutes later, he dozes off into a blissful sleep in his chair, about to be transported into a wonderful dream about boys, pranks and Mark’s gorgeous red mouth on his.

♪

Back in his hometown, Mark has spent the entire evening writing away in the little blue notebook he takes everywhere. Every song he’s written since coming home is uplifting and bright – worlds away from the songs Mark always writes, with their dark themes and sad undertones.

Mark’s so inspired that he can’t stop writing. He skips tea so he can keep up with the little bursts of ideas that keep popping up inside his head. They guide Mark’s aching hand until the pages of his notebook are scribbled full with a million songs about Rob’s personality and looks, described in a dozen different ways.

When Mark read the lyrics again at midnight – a terribly late time, given that he has to go to work tomorrow –, he finds that his songs are much better when they’re about Rob. They’re longer and much more creative. Inspired by his date, it takes him only a couple of minutes to write several hundreds of words.

If it took a blind date for Mark to find his voice again, then perhaps he doesn’t need to save up for those music lessons after all.  

♪

The best feeling in the world is to be kissed by someone. The second-best feeling in the world is the rush that follows; that ever-lasting fuzzy _glow_ that can be seen from afar. Over the next couple of days, that gorgeous, giddy rush is the only thing Mark feels.

When Mark wakes up in the morning, he feels good inside. When he rides the hot, crowded bus to work, he couldn’t be happier. Even when he walks into the bank and gets ready for a long days’ worth of work, he feels like the happiest person in the world. Every single interaction with the people around him is accompanied with a broad, toothy smile that has absolutely nothing to do with what he’s doing at his desk.

Every time Mark stops talking to take a breath, his mind brings him back to Rob. Every single second, he thinks about the tingling pressure Robbie left on his mouth. The way Rob’s hands crept up his sides. The way Rob _looked_ at him after they’d kissed. The way Rob walked him to the bus stop as the bus went down. Before that, they must have spent about two hours in the alleyway, just talking and kissing and pretending to be no more than friends whenever someone walked past them.

Finally, before Mark took his bus home, the lads made a vow to call each other every night. They have, and it’s been amazing (last night, their phone call lasted over an hour, with Rob going on and on about an eventful English lesson for about twenty minutes), but Mark almost wishes they’d done _more_. He could easily have taken Rob home. He could have shown Rob the private parts of his bedroom; the parts where Mark goes where he thinks about Rob in the evening. They could have slept together and cuddled, or more.

Of course, Mark knows they’re not there yet. Their relationship is still blossoming, like a young spring flower that has yet to show its colours. Awkward phone calls should be more than enough for now, and they are: his phone calls with Rob are the main reason why Mark is so happy this week.

From Tuesday to Thursday, Mark genuinely enjoys going to work. Even when a customer yells at him for forgetting to fill in a form or when he’s not able to help someone with the broken cash machine, Mark still reacts like an angel. Mark Owen, when he’s in love, is the purest, kindest version of himself.

But as with all happy rushes, the aftermath of having been kissed by Robbie Williams eventually has to fade. Come Thursday afternoon, the glow has completely worn off.

It’s not something Mark has decided for himself. It just happens over time, like a shift in the weather. One moment he’s the stereotypical image of a teenager in love, the next he’s the stereotypical image of someone fed up with work.

The change is caused by his colleague Stephanie, who suddenly decides to mention Richard at the end of their shift. They’re in the staff room. Richard, of course, isn’t there: it’s Thursday, so he’s at university doing God knows what.  

‘I _so_ hope Richard decides to call in sick tomorrow,’ Stephanie says. ‘I can never handle his tantrums, can you?’

‘Tell me about it,’ says one of the interns, an Asian accountancy student who otherwise doesn’t talk much unless she can gossip or complain, or both. ‘I don’t know why you guys put up with him. No offence.’

Stephanie makes an agreeing _hum_ while she puts on her leather jacket. ‘None taken, Ling. I bet you’re glad your work placement is over soon. Two weeks, isn’t it?’

‘Three weeks, I’m afraid. But still. I think I’d rather go to boring seminars at school than coming here. At least my professors don’t make you feel shit like that fucking _tool_ does. Again, no offence.’

‘No, I get you,’ Stephanie nods. ‘I’m only here to save up for my gap year, to be honest.’

‘You don’t want to go to university, then?’ asks one of the other interns. He doesn’t interact with Richard much and actually has a penchant for numbers, unlike the other young employees. ‘This job’s a great stepping stone if you want to do something in finance.’

‘ _Ew._ No thanks,’ Stephanie laughs. ‘This job’s put me off banking for life . . .’

It’s just a casual conversation between young adults, but it’s enough to burst Mark’s bubble. Before his colleagues’ comments, Mark’s recollection of his Monday afternoon was mostly based on the skewed memories of what he did with Rob: the hand-holding, the kisses, the outrageous fingers running down his sides. He hadn’t spared Richard a single thought since he and Rob walked to the bus stop together. As long as he could still bring back to mind the look on Rob’s face right after they’d kissed, he’d feel on top of the world forever.

But now, sat in the staff room on a Thursday afternoon with his three colleagues gossiping about Richard, Mark feels like the rug has been pulled from under his feet.

A dozen thoughts run through his mind. What if Richard recognised him after all? What if the first thing Richard does in the morning is fire him? Or worse, make fun of him? Bully him? Ridicule Mark for being _so_ desperate that he had to lower himself to knocking and running, a prank he’d never even done before?

The questions are so paralysing that an otherwise excellent day turns into torture. What originally felt like a victory turns into a bad dream. Whereas Mark spent that morning’s trip to work fantasizing about Rob’s hands on him, he now spends the entire journey back home biting his nails. He can’t even remember putting on his coat. He doesn’t recall leaving the staff room and bracing the wind on the way to the bus stop.

One moment he’s in the staff room in the bank, listening to his colleagues; the next he’s on the bus home, hidden in the back as though he’s afraid Richard will come looking for him. He thinks every single noise and bump in the road is Richard, torturing him from afar. He becomes suddenly and irrationally afraid that Richard’s sat on the seat in front of him. He convinces himself that a shifting shadow in a narrow alleyway in his hometown is his tall colleague, about to get payback.

Mark knows, rationally, that none of these fears are genuine and that it’s just his guilty conscience playing tricks on him, but it’s already too late. Instead of spending his Thursday evening moving his hand into a dozen more songs about Rob, Mark lies in bed all night, wide awake and paralysed. He stares at the ceiling until he dozes off into an unpleasant dream about Richard tearing up the songs in his notebook.

When Mark wakes up the next morning, he does so with a headache. His tummy aches where there were pleasant little butterflies only yesterday. He fails to picture Rob in his mind’s eye. The only thing he can see is a skewed image of Richard standing right behind him, about to pull down the hood of the jacket Mark stole from Rob. Every time his tired brain forces him into imagining what happens next, he feels a shiver run all the way from his neck to his toes.

With his body feeling the strain of a restless night, Mark’s first instinct is to head down to the dining room and call in sick: something he’s never done before. Even when he had a terrible fever a year ago – back when he was working as a shop assistant in a clothing shop, selling clothes he could never afford –, he still went to work. He didn’t _dare_ letting his colleagues down. Mark wouldn’t miss a day of work even if he was dead.

In other words, calling in sick isn’t an option. Neither is pretending that’s having personal issues, for he doesn’t want to lie. Lying to his boss would only make him more similar to Richard, who’s turned lying into an art form. Mark _has_ to go to work, but he can’t drag himself to the bus stop feeling like a tired sack of potatoes either. Between now and 8:10, when his bus leaves, he’ll have no choice but to transform himself into Greater Manchester’s best ever bank cashier.

Something desperate and instinctual makes Mark dial the number of the Williams household instead. He’s managed to drag himself to the dining room, where the lights are still off. He’s the only one up; his parents are still in bed, asleep.

Then he remembers. The thought hits him when he looks at the phone in his hand. 

He didn’t phone Rob at all yesterday. He promised he would, but Mark’s moment of panic completely made him forget it. Last night, Mark went to bed without speaking a single word. He didn’t even have tea. Even his songbook remained in his Observer’s Bank tote bag, neglected as though Mark had been struck by writer’s block.

As such, Mark spends a couple of minutes listlessly staring at the phone in his hands, not knowing what to do. His mind keeps jumping between desperate, anxious images of going back to work and better, brighter thoughts about Robbie making him laugh.

Perhaps if Mark hears Rob’s silly jokes again, he won’t dread going to work anymore. He might feel better. He might not even be tempted to think about Richard anymore, who plagued his dreams until Mark woke up in a sweat-stained bed that morning and he dragged himself to the dining room, with his hands holding on to the phone for dear life.

But what if he wakes Rob up? What if he wakes his entire family? They could still be asleep, like Mark’s parents. It’s very early, after all; Rob could get very angry and decide not to want to be mates anymore, all because Mark decided he needed someone to talk to.

He needs someone to talk to.

Spurred on by the loneliness he feels being stood in his dining room in the dark, Mark dials Rob’s number anyway. He dials it without having to look it up. The numbers come as naturally as though he has seen the number a dozen times.

A second later, Mark can hear the dialling tone ringing in his ear. He waits with baited breath. His heart thunders in his chest, making him feel more awake than he did a minute ago. The sleepless night from before turns into a distant memory when Robbie’s voice reaches his ears.

‘Williams household. Who’s calling?’

Instead of feeling comforted at hearing Robbie’s voice, Mark regrets calling him instantly. He feels all of a sudden very guilty and silly. What was he thinking, calling Rob at seven in the morning? He shouldn’t be doing this. He should be in bed, pretending to be sick so he’ll get away with skipping work. His mum might not even mind – she’s very supportive, after all, and she probably knows about Mark’s struggles at work already. He could still hang up and go back to bed.

But Rob insists. He urges Mark to reply. ‘ _Hello_? Who’s this?’

Mark tenses. He wants to hang up, but something urges him to speak anyway. He sounds unusually croaky and tired, like he’s listening to himself through a filter. ‘ _Um_. Hi. It’s me, Mark. Mark Owen.’

‘Mark! Hiya, mate.’

‘ _Um._ Hello.’

‘Hello,’ Rob reiterates a little awkwardly.

‘Hi. _Um_. I – I hope I didn’t wake you?’

‘I’ve been awake since six, mate, so not really. Me mum’s makin’ sure I don’t skip school again by pullin’ me out of bed every morning. It’s _really_ annoyin’. She even insists on actually _bringin’_ me to school so she knows I’m not skivin’ off again.’ Rob breathes a big sigh. He sounds quite hoarse, in a sexy “early morning” kind of way. ‘Oh _well_. _You’re_ probably used to it, aren’t you? I bet it does your head in, wakin’ up each mornin’ like you’re a proper functionin’ human bein’.’

‘I know. It does. That’s why I’m phoning. I wanted to apologise.’

Silence. If video phones had already been invented, Mark would have seen that Rob is frowning in a very confused manner. ‘Apologise for _what,_ mate? Like, for phonin’ me in the morning?’

‘For not calling you _yesterday_ , obviously. I didn’t get in touch with you even though I promised I would,’ Mark trails off, sounding a little upset. He wishes he’d rehearsed this call. If he had, he’d know what he wanted to say instead of making it up on the spot, like this half-arsed apology that Rob wasn’t expecting.

‘You actually think you need to apologise for not phonin’ me last night?’

‘ _Um_ , yes? Kind of? Obviously.’

‘Well, I appreciate the thought and everythin’, but you don’t _have_ to, mate,’ Rob says, like it’s the most logical thing in the world. With his group of friends being quite small, what he asks of his friends is equally little.

‘But I didn’t _call_ ,’ Mark insists. ‘I _forgot_.’

‘So? I know you said we’d phone each other every day, and I’m stoked about that cos I really like you and stuff, but you do have a job, Mark. You have an actual adult life! I’m not expectin’ us to _talk every single day_. And let’s be honest, mate, I’m probably gonna forget to call a few times meself. Maybe I’m gonna forget about it a lot! But I don’t think I’m a clingy sort of boyfriend so I’m kind of okay with that. Besides, you’re me first mate in about _three years_. I’m gonna be happy with _anything_ we do, to be honest. There’s no need to feel bad.’

Robbie’s unexpected but frank words have disarmed Mark completely. He doesn’t know what to say. For Rob to be so honest and mature at seven in the morning is one thing, but for him to call Mark his actual _boyfriend_? That’s something else entirely. It’s a massive step in their relationship that Mark didn’t see coming.

‘You still there, mate?’

Mark starts stammering. He suddenly finds it immensely hard to string a sentence together, let alone react to the fact that Robbie just _called him his boyfriend._ ‘Y-yeah. I’m okay.’

‘You sure? You’re soundin’ a little strange, if you don’t mind me sayin’.’

‘Sorry. Yeah. I’m okay. I-It just came out of nowhere, you know. That you called me your boyfriend, I mean. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t think — I didn’t know we were there already.’

Suddenly, Mark isn’t sure _where_ they are. Are they indeed boyfriends already, or are they still in the early stages of getting there? He wishes he knew. Previous relationships that he had when he was fifteen or sixteen weren’t quite as complicated as this, with him having met Rob purely by accident.

What’s more, his early relationships weren’t built around a blind date that involved pranks and a joke shop. More often than not, the relationships he’d had when he was still in school existed of no more than a single date. He’d meet his date at the cinema, maybe smooch if he felt like it, and then never see them again because _he_ was too busy at school or _they_ were too busy taking part in the local sports team. It was never intentional: it’s just how relationships go when you’re young.

But with Rob, Mark has already done a lot more than just date him. They’ve kissed. They’ve phoned, a lot. They promised they’d see each other again over the weekend. Perhaps Rob is right to refer to him as his boyfriend after all.

Mark asks, just to make sure. He’s glad that Robbie can’t see him, for he has gone very red in the face. ‘ _Are_ we there already, Rob? I mean, is this what we are, boyfriends? Not that I’d mind, cos I wouldn’t – I don’t — but I guess I just wanna make sure.’

Robbie gives his answer quite seriously. ‘Well, I know I haven’t really got a lot of experience when it comes to relationships and stuff, but we did do quite a lot of kissin’ last Monday and we’ve been phonin’ each other loads and now _you’re_ phonin’ me at seven in the mornin’, so it’s quite obvious that we have somethin’ going on, as far as _I’m_ concerned. So unless you actively mind callin’ me your boyfriend, then I think I’m gonna keep doin’ it if that’s all right with you.’

Mark finds himself grinning at the receiver. When Robbie puts it like that, he can’t help but agree with him. ‘You’re right, we _are_ boyfriends, aren’t we?’

‘No doubt, mate. I don’t know why I haven’t bothered lookin’ for a boyfriend before – it feels amazing.’

Mark chuckles. Every word Robbie says sends pinpricks of giddiness through his entire body, charging him up after last night’s hellish nightmares. If he hadn’t phoned Rob, he would never have felt happy today. ‘It does feel good, doesn’t it? Yeah. I think I can live with that, you being my boyfriend.’

They ease into the rest of the conversation. They briefly discuss the latest football results and Robbie’s upcoming day at school before eventually heading back to where the conversation started, with Mark phoning to apologise for not getting in touch last night.

‘So you seemed pretty adamant about apologisin’ for not phonin’ last night,’ Rob says. In the meantime, Mark has turned on the lights so he can make himself breakfast. The phone is in the dining room, but the chord is so long that Mark can carry the phone all the way to the kitchen counter. ‘Was there, like, a reason you didn’t call or did you just forget? Which I’d be totally cool with, by the way. Like I said, I’m not clingy. I’m a cool boyfriend.’

Mark has already told Robbie so much about his struggles at work that his story of the previous night comes out of him quite naturally. He’s not ashamed to admit that the thought of going back to work kept him up at night. ‘I guess I _did_ forget, in a way. I’m sorry.’

‘What happened? Did you not have a good time at work yesterday?’

‘Sort of. I’d been feeling amazing all day, but then one of my co-workers suddenly mentioned Richard and I just . . . I don’t know, I guess I broke a little inside. All my colleague had to do was mention his name and I suddenly remembered how scared I was when Richard chased us on Monday. It became the only thing I could think of.’

‘That’s not good.’

‘No. And then I came home and my mood just changed completely. I went from feeling really wonderful to becoming absolutely terrified that Richard was about to enter my house and tell me off for pranking him . . . So that’s why I didn’t call last night. It’s not what I didn’t _want_ to, I just . . . couldn’t. It was like Richard was right there with me. It was very scary.’

Rob utters an understanding _hum_. ‘So what is it that scared you exactly, then? Apart from the thought of Richard breakin’ into your house,’ he adds with just the right amount of humour.

‘Dunno. I suppose I’m still worried that he recognised me on Monday.’

‘But he _didn’t_. You were in disguise. He won’t have known it was you. _We_ would have known if he did.’

‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ Mark mumbles right before taking a big bite of buttered toast. Not bothering with chairs, he has taken a seat on top of the dining table to eat his breakfast. By now, his parents have woken up too; he can hear the sound of their footsteps as they head to the bathroom in turns. ‘What if he’s going to kill me or something?’

‘Richard couldn’t even keep up with me while I was carryin’ all your stuff on Monday, so I think you’re all right.’

Mark deliberately doesn’t respond. He takes another bite of toast. Rob doesn’t speak either. He’s thinking about how best to make Mark feel better; something Rob has exclusively done with jokes thus far.

‘Mark, mate, you do realise we _won_ , right? Last Monday, that was us winnin’. We pranked Richard and we didn’t even get caught! I know it probably didn’t feel like it _then_ , but we were totally victorious. I bet he’s still kickin’ himself about it now.

‘It felt more like losing to me,’ Mark mumbles, remembering with a shiver how bad he felt when he got out of bed that morning. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Rob, last Monday was really, really great, but Richard’s still gonna bully me today. He’s still gonna look at me and go, “Oh, I wonder how I can ruin Mark’s day today. I wonder what I can do to make him tick.” And I know that we successfully pranked him, but _he_ doesn’t know that, does he? He doesn’t know that I pranked him. And I don’t _want_ him to, cos I’m dead scared that if he does I’ll never hear the end of it . . . I’m sorry. I did enjoy our date. Especially when you kissed me,’ he adds, stammering a little. He feels his cheeks burning up just thinking about it.

‘We should probably do that again soon,’ Rob agrees.

‘Probably.’

‘But just to summarise — you’re still worried about Richard?’

‘A little bit. Yes. Very much.’

‘ _How_ much?’

‘Enough to fill sick to my stomach just thinking about him.’

Mark won’t know this, but at the other end of the line, Rob suddenly makes up his mind about something. He starts stuffing the things that he’ll need for his best ever prank into his school bag, determined that this is what Mark needs to cheer up. He wasn’t so sure about the prank before, but he is now. He’s doing this, sticky notes and all.

But he can’t say a word. It _has_ to stay a secret, or else Mark will tell him off for planning something that he probably thinks is a step too far.

All Rob says about it is this: ‘In all seriousness, Mark, I wouldn’t worry about Richard too much. You know what I mean? I wouldn’t worry about him _at all_. Who wants to worry about a guy like him, anyway? It’s not worth it. Just think about _me_ instead or something.’

Maybe it’s just the early hours of the morning making Mark hear things that aren’t there, but Rob’s words sounded extremely suspicious. ‘If you’re telling me not to worry, then why does it sound like you’re up to something?’

‘ _Do_ I? I’m not,’ Rob says with the same amount of suspiciousness. He sounds like he’s trying to keep a big secret that he’s only a bad moment away from telling everyone, like a surprise party that the birthday person doesn’t know about. ‘I’m _definitely_ not plannin’ something. But if I was, and I’m not, I probably wouldn’t tell you anyway. I’d just tell you not to worry cos I’m a good and dependable boyfriend who doesn’t do weird and suspicious things, ever.’

‘So you _are_ planning something,’ Mark surmises. With Robbie’s previous “ideas” having been quite terrible, he’s not sure whether to feel flattered or worried.

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ Rob says vaguely. ‘But I wouldn’t call in sick at work, is what I’m sayin’. Like, if _I_ can drag meself to school, you can do it too. Drag yourself to work, that is.’

Mark has no idea what to make of all of this. He wonders if he should try to talk Rob out of whatever it is he’s planning, especially if it is a big prank like the one he was a part of four days ago, but Mark already knows Robbie Williams better than that. Robbie does whatever he wants to, whether his boyfriend likes it or not.

‘Just promise me you’ll be careful,’ Mark stresses. ‘Please. Just because you _think_ something is a good idea doesn’t mean it is. You could get hurt.’

Rob laughs. ‘Are you goin’ soft on me, Mr Owen? You did tell me to get a life just a few days ago . . .’

Mark laughs too. Going soft on Rob is the opposite of what he’s doing, but that’s a conversation for a different kind of phone call. ‘Just be careful. Please. I don’t want you to get in trouble with, I don’t know, the _police_ or something. Someone could have you arrested!’

‘Have me arrested? What do you think I’m gonna do, _burgle_ someone?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Mark laughs.

‘Well, I’m not. All I’m sayin’ is, you don’t have to worry about going to work today. I know you had a sleepless night about your colleagues and stuff, but there’s no need. Trust me. Besides, _I’m_ here, ain’t I? If you ever feel bad at work, just call. You can pretend I want to set up a bank account if anyone asks who I am. Actually, maybe I _will_ set up a bank account!’

Mark feels a lot better already. In some miraculous way, Rob has completely melted the worries Mark felt when he got out of bed that morning. He feels like the sun has broken through the clouds, like it did after he and Rob first met.

He has no idea what Robbie is planning, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if it’s naughty or not. The only thing that matters is that Robbie is trying his absolute best to make Mark feel better. They’ve known each other only for a couple of weeks – days, really –, but they’re already taking care of each other as though they’ve known each other for years. 

‘Well, if you genuinely wanna set up a bank account I better go to work then, don’t I, Rob?’ Mark says, sounding more like his true self than he did at the start of their phone call. He finally finishes the piece of toast he was holding in his hand and hops off the dining room table with a bit of a flourish. ‘I feel bad just sayin’ this, but I _was_ planning to call in sick, actually . . .’

‘Well, don’t. That would be very irresponsible.’

Mark rolls his eyes at the air. ‘Says the guy who skipped school to go on a date with _me_.’

‘Can you blame me, Mark?’

Mark laughs. In the background, the old grandfather clock in the living room strikes eight. Upstairs, Mark’s parents are getting ready to work. He can see the next-door neighbour walking past the dining room window with a briefcase in one hand and the morning paper in the other. Mark’s Observer’s Bank tote bag, still marked with little stains of dirt from that Monday, has been draped over a chair like a blanket, completely empty.

They’re all stark reminders that Mark is not supposed to sit here and talk to Rob, but go to work. In ten minutes’ time, his bus will leave from the bus stop on the other side of the road, with or without him. He has to hang up or else arrive late at work and be scrutinised by Richard anyway.

‘So seeing that we’re being very mature and responsible and all — I should probably hang up now,’ Mark says, even though he doesn’t sound keen at all. He’d rather stay here all morning and talk to Rob about everything there is to talk about, like music and kisses and where they’re going to meet up next.

‘Same, ‘ere,’ says Rob. ‘Me mums givin’ me a very angry look from across the living room at the moment, I’m afraid. I think she wants me to hang up . . .’

With the hands of the time ticking faster than it seems, there eventually comes a moment when the boys have to hang up. It happens quite naturally: after Rob has once again reminded Mark not to worry about Richard (and Mark has likewise reminded Robbie _not to skip school_ ), they say their goodbyes and hang up the phone. Two minutes later, Mark rushes towards the hallway to put on his coat. After he spent the greater part of a Monday afternoon wearing Robbie’s jacket, his expensive winter coat isn’t quite as appealing as it used to be.

Meanwhile, Robbie quickly shoves all his remaining things into his schoolbag in the kitchen. He’s going to take his textbooks, of course, and a lunchbox and a single ballpoint pen that he’ll eventually lose during a geography lesson when he tries to catapult it towards his teacher’s head, but he’s taking other things with him as well. There’s the magazine he found in his room; a big block of post-its; an entire roll of plastic tape and a tube of paper glue. In the back pocket of his jeans, he has yet to find the piece of paper with the information about the boy band audition that he once put in there.

Rob doesn’t know it yet, but his biggest prank yet will also be his most important.

***

There are days when nothing in life goes planned: days when, if you stop to listen, you can hear your heartbeat ticking out of time with the rest of the world. These are the sort of days when you’ll miss your bus, trip over a brick, bump into someone and arrive late at work in the course of less than an hour. All the while, you’ll be wondering whether the world is trying to conspire against you.

Today is the opposite. Mark doesn’t miss his bus this time. Usually crowded, the bus is almost empty, allowing Mark to claim a spot at the very front. The other commuters, an elderly couple and a cute lad next to a window, all smiled at him when he entered.

Throughout the journey, the weather stays fair. The sun shines down on the English streets as it did on Monday, when Mark and Robbie first met.

The bus ordinarily takes an eternity to reach the city centre, but it doesn’t this time. It hardly stops, and no one cares. Even when the bus _does_ stop to let in a fair-haired girl at a quiet heart-shaped junction, the clock slows down again as though wanting every person in the bus to get where they need to be on time.

A minute later, Mark finds a two-pound coin on the seat next to him, its face pointed to the sky. Mark puts the coin in his wallet and promises to spend it wisely. Maybe he’ll use it to buy himself and Rob ice cream one day.

Mark doesn’t know what time it is exactly, but he has a feeling he’ll be five minutes early today. Maybe even more. During any other week, this would have scared him, for arriving five minutes early would mean having to spend _five more minutes_ with Richard, but Mark doesn’t care today. He watches the bus meander into the familiar city streets with his heart racing. He feels a comfortable warmth in his chest. His tummy doesn’t ache this time.

More than anything, talking to Robbie that morning has allowed him to go to work not caring if Richard will hurt him. He doesn’t care if Richard bothers him or not. Mark has Robbie to look forward to, after all, and that’s all he cares about.

***

The bus stops in front of Observer’s Bank just in time. Mark leaves his seat, thanks the driver and hops off the bus with a lightness in his step. The bank is at the opposite side of the street, right in front of the bus stop. Judging by the large clock on the side of one of the department stores in the street, he still has about four minutes to spare until he’s meant to start his day at work.   

Not feeling like heading into the bank just yet, Mark spends a couple of minutes just looking around him at the bus stop. He’s been here before, of course (every day of the week, in fact, for five soul-destroying weeks), but it’s as if he’s only _now_ seeing the street and the things and people in it, like the girls in the tailored summer jackets or the little patches of green in the cracks of the pavement, allowing little flowers to pop up and curve around the bus stop bench. They’re perhaps not the prettiest things in the world, but they’re real. They’re a dozen tiny details that Mark is only now seeing because he is in love.

He stops to smile. _He’s in love_. He knew that already, of course, but it’s the first time he’s thought it out loud.

It’s a good feeling, being in love. It feels like a magical protection spell, shielding Mark from whatever is waiting for him being the staff entrance to the bank. In fact, it’s probably the first time being in love has ever made him feel that way. His previous crushes were all really good fun, but they didn’t feel like Rob. The girl in the bike shed was a lovely girl, but she didn’t kiss like Rob. The guy in the garage was gorgeous, but he didn’t make Mark feel warm and fuzzy inside.

If he didn’t know better, he’d probably say Rob is the first time he’s ever truly been in love at all, guarding his every step from the bus stop to the back door of the job he dislikes.

Precisely on time, Mark reaches the staff door. It’s hidden at the back of the building, adjacent to a derelict parking lot shared by the coffee shop next door and a couple of other establishments. Richard’s car is there too: the latest Mercedes, bought for him by his dad. It even has a vanity plate.

In spite of the obvious reminder of his colleague, Mark happily makes his way inside the building and heads to the staff room. He takes off his coat and hangs it on one of the clothes pegs on the wall, making sure it looks straight and tidy. He straightens his tie; the one part of his uniform he can never quite get to look right. He digs his hand into a fresh pick ‘n mix bag he took with him to work and eats the red jelly babies that Rob loved on Monday. He even takes a minute to write down a nice lyric that just popped into his head.

Precisely on time, Mark enters the lobby. Stephanie and two interns are already at their desks, waiting for the doors of the bank to open. Mark joins them once he’s stuffed his exercise book and a pen underneath his shirt, hidden from view.

***

The next couple of hours are business as usual. Richard is grumpier than ever: as well as ordering Mark to fill in loads of paperwork, he has also decided to turn Mark into some sort of coffee lady. Within two hours, Mark has already made Richard seven cups of coffee. Such a task would ordinarily have fatigued Mark tremendously, but today his energy levels are unchanging. Instead of cowering underneath Richard’s gaze and begging to be left alone, Mark responds to all of his colleague’s requests with an infuriating little smile on his face.

In spite of Richard’s constant remarks, Mark remains polite. Every time Richard asks Mark to do something for him, he simply pictures the look on Robbie’s face right before they kissed. Every time Richard yells at him, he imagines Robbie doing something very sensual to his nether regions.

The memory of Rob shrouds Mark in an untouchable zen-like cloud. It’s as if he is Calmness itself, radiating from him everywhere he goes. It’s contagious: Ling, one of the unhappy female interns, spends a lot less time sighing and groaning when she’s asked to fill in paperwork. A forty-year-old bank cashier with troubles at home has smiled more than she has all month. A customer Richard shouted at last week visibly relaxes when Mark winks at her. Even Stephanie looks rather peaceful.  

Mark’s contagious aura of love and happiness is wonderful for business, but Richard is less happy. He much prefers it when Mark is pale and shaking and scared. He _likes_ it. It makes him feel powerful. Seeing his colleagues tense up when he talks to them gives him a sense of authority that he can’t get anywhere else.

But today, things are different. No matter how much he yells at Mark Owen, the silly little sod remains ridiculously cheerful. He doesn’t care about other people’s happiness much, so he assumes it’s a deliberate ploy to drive him up the wall.

Richard confronts Mark about it during a break in the staff room. It’s nearly five o’ clock; about an hour till closing time.

‘You seem very happy this morning, Owen,’ Richard glowers. ‘Did you find out you’ve gotten taller this morning or something? Oh wait — you haven’t grown since you were _four_.’

Mark’s happiness is indestructible. No matter how much Richard tries to destroy him, he’s still feeling the delicious buzz of being in love.

‘It’s just a lovely day, you know,’ Mark says dreamily. He looks out of the window with a warm, faraway glow in his eyes. He again finds himself thinking about Robbie, who must already be back at home. On Fridays, Robbie’s school day ends at one o’ clock. ‘The weather is amazing today. I can’t wait for the weekend, can you? I think I’ll go for a walk. Yeah, I’ll go for a walk. A very long walk,’ he adds just as dreamily, imagining Robbie joining him on the walk and holding his hand.

Of course, Richard can only respond with a grumble. He disinterestedly looks out of the staff room window as if wanting to find something that makes today not lovely at all. Unfortunately, he finds nothing: the sun is out, the sky is bright and there’s not a cloud in sight. The view from the staff room window is merely that of the parking lot, but even old cars look beautiful when the sun is shining. Mark Owen is right: it _is_ a lovely day.

‘I think I prefer winter,’ Richard snarls just for the sake of disagreement. Then his eyes narrow. He furrows his brow. ‘Hang on – is that my _car_. . . ?’

Mark follows Richard’s gaze. When he sees what Richard is referring to, his heart jumps. His happy glow fades as quickly as it arrived. Outside, on the parking lot, Mark can clearly see Richard’s expensive Mercedes, parked in the same spot it was three hours ago — and it’s covered in a million technicolour sticky notes.

‘Oh dear.’ This comes from Mark. He doesn’t know what else to say. He can tell, from up here, that Richard’s car has obviously been the victim of some sort of prank, but his thoughts stop there. He’s too flabbergasted to tell whether the prank is meant to be funny or awful or a bit of both. He doesn’t even make the connection between the sticky notes and his boyfriend, who’s been saving dozens of little blocks of post-its just for today.

Richard’s flabbergasted too. He has noticed that a small crowd has gathered in front of his car: all of Richard’s young colleagues, pointing and laughing at the spectacle as though it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever seen. Even the interns have joined.

It’s as if the sight of his vandalised car has turned Richard into stone. He stares at the crowd. He keeps looking at it until one of his colleagues gets out a small Polaroid camera to take a photo of his car.

That’s when Richard snaps. He turns beet red and storms out of the staff room before Mark can stop him.

‘Richard — _wait_!’

Mark’s legs move on his own. He finds himself following his colleague outside.

He steps out onto the pavement just in time. He sees Richard pushing his way through the crowd. It’s left a space between Stephanie and Ling, the female intern. When Mark squeezes himself between them, his belly does an unpleasant backflip.

The car looks even worse from up close. Way worse.

Every single inch of the car has been covered by sticky notes. Not a single spot has been left untouched. Even the wheels have yellow post-its on it, creating an image like that of a toy car.

Someone has turned Richard’s Mercedes into a toy car.

The sight is amusing, but Richard finds it less funny. He yells several expletives at the lad with the Polaroid camera and starts snatching pink sticky notes off his windows by the handful. It magically reveals yet more sticky notes: another layer, light blue. It’s as if the car has turned into a never-ending supply of stationery, created just to make Richard suffer.

What’s worse, none of the onlookers are helping. They’re just pointing and laughing. They’re ordering Richard around, telling him to get rid of a sticky note here or snatch off a sticky note there.

It’s a reverse image of what Richard has been doing to his colleagues ever since Mark started working here.

Mark himself is torn. He can see that a car being covered in sticky notes is obviously hilarious, but he also feels bad, still. After all, it _is_ an expensive car, and Richard looks terribly upset, for a bully. His car probably isn’t going to look very good after all the sticky notes have been removed.

Then again, Richard did _scare_ Mark on Monday. He threatened to have Mark and Robbie arrested. He chased Mark and Robbie until they hid in an alleyway and kissed. Perhaps a person like Richard deserves nothing less than to be stood here, removing layer upon layer of sticky note by the handful until there’s sweat on his brow and he can’t feel his hands anymore.   

One of the sticky notes hilariously gets stuck to Richard’s right hand, and a loud, guilty laugh erupts from Mark’s mouth before he can stop himself. The laugh is so contagious that more people laugh: a handful of bank cashiers, all sharing in their joy at seeing Richard Toole doing something productive for the first time in his life.

It makes Richard stop what he’s doing. He squints against the sunlight to stare at Mark. ‘Shouldn’t you be at your _desk_ , Owen?’

Mark doesn’t flinch. Whilst he knows that he probably ought to apologise, Mark is still too in love to feel scared or intimidated.

He demonstratively crosses his arms. He again reminds himself what Rob told him that morning, about not having to worry. He uses the giddiness he’s been feeling as his protection spell. ‘I’m on my break right now, so I don’t think so, sorry,’ he says with remarkable politeness.

Richard turns even redder. Ling, one of the interns, takes an involuntary step backwards. A small vein has appeared on Richard’s forehead. ‘What did you just say?’

‘I said I’m not going back to my desk,’ Mark says with just as much politeness. ‘Besides, it’s not like _you’ve_ done much all day.’

The words make Ling and Stephanie gasp. A complete stranger puts her hand to her mouth. A male, older bank cashier gives Mark a judgmental shake of his head.

Mark would ordinarily apologise for such an awful outburst, but he doesn’t want to, and he wouldn’t be able to anyway, for Richard has already set his jaw and given him an angry look. If Richard were a teapot, steam would be coming out of his ears.

‘Did you just seriously suggest I haven’t done anything today, Owen?’

‘I’m not wrong, am I?’

‘You’re not,’ Stephanie agrees.

‘Yeah. You just order people around all day,’ nods Ling.

People obviously siding with Mark is the final straw. Richard neglects his car and stalks towards Mark in three big, heavy strides.

Richard’s used to Mark shrivelling up in front of him, but Mark doesn’t seem fazed at all today. His colleague is energised with his boyfriend’s words from that morning, reminding him that they were victorious and that it’s going to be okay. He’s not going to have worry about Richard ever again. And why should he? He’d rather spend his days thinking about Robbie instead.

But Richard tries to break Mark anyway. He puts his hands on his sides and gives Mark an angry look. ‘Do you _want_ to lose your job, Owen?’

The words come out strangled. Richard looks at the crowd that has gathered. Apart from two older bank cashiers, who don’t involve themselves with their younger colleagues and are happy being sat at their desks all day thank you very much, the entire Friday staff is here. Richard’s used to having them looking at him with big scared eyes, but now they’re just mocking him.  

The situation has penetrated the untouchable armour Richard was wearing. He tries to regain his villainous strength by reaching Mark where it hurts most: his music lessons.  

‘Owen, need I remind you that you won’t be able to afford your music lessons if you get fired? I bet you’ll be _really_ upset if you won’t be able to see your _handsome_ teacher anymore . . .’

‘Richard, stop it,’ Stephanie warns. She glances at Mark, who has gone a little pink at the suggestion of a handsome music teacher. ‘Let’s just get back to work before we all get sunburnt.’

‘What about my _car_ , though?’ Richard snarls. He jabs a thin, long finger at his car. His face looks red and blotched. ‘I can’t just get back to work! We need to find whoever’s responsible for this, and fast.’

‘Well, it’s not us, if that’s what you’re suggesting,’ Ling retorts. She flicks her jet black hair over her shoulder and crosses her arms. ‘ _We_ didn’t do this. We were sat behind our desks all morning, weren’t we, Steph?’

‘All morning,’ Stephanie reiterates. ‘Mark too. I don’t think he even went to the restroom, he was so busy. He can’t have done it.’

Mark nods. It’s true: he and his colleagues haven’t left the lobby all day. Someone from the outside the bank must have covered Richard’s car in sticky notes.

‘Maybe it was a couple of kids,’ Stephanie suggests as much. ‘Just a bunch of lads having fun.’

Richard scoffs. ‘You call covering a Mercedes with sticky notes _fun_? Do you know how _expensive_ this car is? I’m gonna have to spend _hours_ getting rid of everything! I don’t have _time_ for this!’

‘You know what, Richard, we might actually help you with your car if you ask _nicely_ for once,’ Ling suggests quasi-seriously. ‘You know, when you say “please” and “thank you”? We could call it a fucking bonding experience or something.’

Stephanie’s face softens. ‘That’s a good idea, actually, Ling. I like that.’

Mark likes Ling’s suggestion too. After all, the biggest victory of all would be kindness over everything; not laughing and pointing at Richard’s car like an idiot, but actually helping Richard because it’s the one thing he’d never do himself. If the pranksters had chosen Stephanie’s car over Richard’s, Richard would probably have been the one taking photos of it with a Polaroid camera.

But Mark is different. With the hilarity of the prank having faded, he decides to test the stickiness of the post-its. He pulls a green sticky note from one of the windows, revealing yet another layer underneath.

‘It’ll probably take a few hours to get rid of. Less if we work together.’ Mark inspects the sticky note in his hand. It really is incredibly sticky; it won’t even come off! ‘These things are all covered in extra glue, for some reason. Whoever did this must not have wanted the post-its to come off at all.’

‘Show me that.’

Richard snatches the post-it from Mark’s hand. In doing so, he unintentionally exposes the scabs that Mark he got when he tripped in Richard’s front garden.  

‘Hang on.’ The penny drops. Richard’s mind flashes back to last Monday. He tries to bring back to mind the stranger who had fallen in front of his very feet. ‘Where did you get those wounds, Owen?’

Mark’s heart drops. All the giddiness that was still left in his body disappears in an instant. He feels himself burning up as he watches Richard’s features transform into something very sharp and dangerous.

‘I – I fell,’ Mark stammers. ‘I fell and hurt my hands.’

‘ _When_?’

It doesn’t take Mark long to realise how bad this must look. The wounds on his hands; the car; him bursting out laughing when Richard failed to get rid of a post-it; the fact that he was standing next to Richard the very moment they spotted the car. It must look as if Mark himself has orchestrated the prank.

But he hasn’t.

_Rob_ has. Mark only now realises. This must be what Rob has been planning! This is what Robbie was talking about this morning! He was behind the prank with the car all along, and Mark didn’t even know it!

But Richard doesn’t know anything. He forces Mark to answer; to confess, almost, that he’s the one who did this.

‘Answer me, Owen. When did you fall?’

Richard’s terrifying stare forces the truth out of Mark. He can’t help it. Even as he’s about to be fired, he _needs_ to be truthful. He has to be.

‘I – I fell on Monday.’ Mark can feel himself shaking. Stephanie and Ling are watching him with big, round eyes. ‘I f-fell w-when I . . .’

‘When _what_?’

Mark swallows. He feels himself tremble and gain strength at the same time. Suddenly, his conscience reaches a crossroads: either he’s truthful, with the added risk of losing his job, or he lies to Richard that he fell during football and keeps his job, inadvertently allowing himself to be bullied for another week. Or worse, a month. A year, even. Is his job really more important than his own dignity?

No. No, it isn’t. He doesn’t want to be afraid anymore. He _refuses_ to be afraid. If this costs him his job, then so be it. He never needed the music lessons to write a good song anyway.

‘I tripped when I pranked you last Monday,’ Mark admits with admirable courage. He swallows. He stands a little taller as he looks at all the people that have gathered: Stephanie, Ling, the other intern, the strangers from the coffee-shop next-door. ‘The person ringing your door — that was me, Richard. I did that. I rang your doorbell and ran away before you could open the door.’

Stephanie gasps. Ling looks more alive than ever. A gust of wind sends a handful of sticky notes on one of the doors flying into the air like confetti.

Richard doesn’t know what to say. He looks Mark up and down like he’s no more than an annoying insect. ‘The person I chased was _you_ , Owen?’

‘Yes. I _pranked_ you, Richard. The person who rang your doorbell was me.’

Richard scoffs. His idea of Mark hasn’t changed; if anything, Mark Owen has become even more insignificant than before. ‘ _Why?_ ’

Mark laughs in spite of himself. The fact that Richard isn’t aware of why someone would ever prank him is incredibly telling. It’s like he’s too selfish and stuck-up to realise how bad his behaviour is.

Then again, perhaps Richard just doesn’t care.

Mark tells Richard why he did what he did with the same politeness he uses for his customers. He refuses to fall out like he did when Robbie pranked him the first time round.

‘Isn’t it obvious why I did it, Richard? You think you can away with bullying everyone just because your dad owns the place, but you can’t, you know. You won’t. If you keep treating everyone like they mean nothing to you, it’ll come back to bite you one day. People will decide they’ve had more than enough of you. I know _I_ have.’ Mark looks at his colleagues. Stephanie flashes a sad, understanding smile at him. ‘I’m sick of being treated this way just because of who I am. It really gets to me. It makes me feel awful every time I get here. And I’m not even the person who vandalised your car, but I’m glad they did it. I’m sorry, Richard, but I am. You deserve it.’

The words have poured out of Mark like a sad waterfall. He braces himself for Richard to lash out at him and hurt him, but Richard doesn’t lash out at all. All he does is say three words.  

‘You’re fired, Owen.’

Mark has been preparing for this moment for so long that his brain barely hears the words. He doesn’t even beg to be given back his position. He remains calm and polite, like he has done ever since he got here. ‘Would you like me to clean out my desk first, Richard? There’s some paperwork still on there that I could get rid of for you. I don’t want someone else to have to do it.’

Richard grumbles at Mark’s dreadful politeness. ‘Just grab your stuff and get out of my sight before I tell my dad what you did.’

Mark does as he’s told. He profusely thanks Steph and the others for being such good colleagues, walks back into the bank, collects his things from the staff room, makes sure his exercise book is in his tote bag, puts on his coat and leaves the building via the customer entrance. By the time he’s stepped outside, Richard’s already ordered his remaining co-workers to head back to their desks.

The realisation of what’s just happened doesn’t hit him until the automatic doors of the bank slide closed behind him. He’s just been fired! He’s out of a job!

He doesn’t know how it makes him feel. He feels ashamed, but also proud. He’s finally stepped up. He’s done it. He doesn’t have to worry about Richard ever again, like Rob promised that morning.

Right on cue, Robbie himself appears out of nowhere. He slaps Mark on the back and wraps Mark into a warm, big hug that makes the both of them turn very red.

The hug is so tight that Mark can hardly breathe. He gasps against Rob’s tall frame, begging him to be released from his arms.

‘You’re squishing me!’ Mark gasps.

‘You what, mate?’

‘ _You’re squishing me_!’ Mark reiterates, and Rob lets go immediately. He gives Mark a worried but flustered look. He’s carrying a school backpack over his right shoulder. He must have come here after finishing school.

‘I saw what happened on the parking lot just now,’ Rob says. ‘I don’t know what to say, mate.’

Mark doesn’t know what to say either. He was so flustered by Robbie suddenly hugging him that Mark had briefly forgotten that he’d been fired at all. The memory of it makes his heart skip a beat, like he’s just missed a step down a long staircase into a bottomless pit.

The feeling of dread disappears as quickly as it arrives. With Robbie staring back at him so lovingly in public, right in front of the entrance of the very place he used to work ten minutes ago, losing his job doesn’t seem like such a bad thing after all.

‘I don’t mind. I’m okay with it, I think,’ Mark reassures Rob. ‘That prank with the sticky notes kind of made it worth it, anyway.’

‘ _I_ did that, by the way,’ Rob’s quick to point out. ‘The sticky notes, I mean. I did that. In case you hadn’t noticed.’

Mark laughs. All around them, shoppers are minding their own business. It’s weird to think that most of those people have no idea what Mark just went through. ‘Yeah, I eventually figured out that you were behind it. It took me a while, though. I thought it was just a couple of kids at first. But I liked it. It was a good prank, Rob.’

Rob stands a little taller and looks a little prouder. ‘So you don’t mind that my prank inadvertently led to you bein’ fired? Cos I can still walk into the bank and tell Richard that you had nothing to do with it . . .’

Mark briefly considers it, but then he shakes his head. ‘There’s no need.’

‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ Mark assures Robbie for the second time. He looks up at the bank. From here, he can easily make out his desk in the back of the lobby. It’s being dusted by Ling, who still looks rather energised from the commotion Rob caused. In hindsight, Mark wishes he’d gotten to know her better; she was quite a nice girl, Ling was. Stephanie too. Now that he thinks about it, none of his colleagues were that terrible, but it’s hard to befriend anyone when you have someone like Richard constantly looking over your shoulder. ‘It wasn’t such a good job, anyway. And I guess it _was_ kind of nice to see Richard’s car covered up like that, wasn’t it? I just hope he doesn’t order everyone else to clean it up for him. That’d be really, really awful . . .’

Eventually, the boys’ conversation moves to the metal bench in front of the bus stop on the other side of the road. It’s the only place they can sit. With the weather having been wonderfully summery since the start of the week, everyone has decided to sunbathe on the city’s benches. Some people have even decided to sit on the grass in the little round park just ahead, not caring if it stains their trousers. When the weather is this beautiful, you make the most of it, no matter what.

Like the people around them, Robbie and Mark spend several minutes just soaking up the April sun. Without passing any judgment, they quietly watch the people that pass. There are the hot businessmen with their jackets in their hands; the girls in their miniskirts; the pale, long-haired girl who refuses to take off her leather jacket because of how good it looks on her; and then the children, delighted at the ice cream cones they’re enjoying in the park.

The bus stop also overlooks the bank and the crowded little coffee shop next door, but Mark doesn’t pay it much attention. With Rob having arrived out of nowhere, he doesn’t want to think about work anymore. He just wants to sit here and do nothing at all.

Sadly, Rob’s mind works a little differently. Once several minutes have passed, he _must_ talk about his prank again.

‘So when your colleague spotted his car . . .’ Rob cocks his eyebrow. He gives Mark an excited, curious look. ‘What did he do? Was he, like, really aggressive and stuff? I only saw the bit when you got fired.’

‘He was really angry when he found out,’ Mark answers. He knows it’s a waste of good weather to spend another breath talking about Richard, but he also knows how much Rob values his opinion about his pranks. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry. It was pretty scary, at first. But then I remembered you told me about not having to worry and I didn’t feel scared anymore.’

Rob’s face lights up. ‘You actually thought of me?’

‘Of course.’ Mark blushes. He’s almost coaxed into admitting that he thinks of Rob _all the time_ , but that’s probably not the sort of conversation they ought to be having on a city bench. ‘How did you know where to find Richard’s car, anyway? I don’t think I told you about it.’

‘You did. You told me he almost ran you over that one time, remember? And his vanity plate is literally RICH001, Mark. I’m not a genius, but even _I_ could figure that one out . . .’

Mark laughs. It’s strange, but he doesn’t feel sad at all. He thought losing his job would feel like the end of the world, but it doesn’t. It feels like the start of a new, brighter one. ‘How did you do it, though? Covering that car must have taken you ages.’

‘It did! Just the windows took me an hour! I nearly gave up and went back to Richard’s house to egg it instead . . . But I _didn’t_ ,’ Rob adds when Mark throws him a worried look. ‘I’m a _grown-up_ prankster now. I don’t throw eggs at people’s houses anymore. That was the _old_ me.’

‘So how did you do it?’

‘It was quite easy, really. Whilst I was sat there coverin’ a stranger’s car in sticky notes I remembered how easy it was befriendin’ _you_ , and I thought, why not get back with me old mates and ask them to help me out? You know what I mean? So that’s what I did. I phoned some of the lads I’d lost touch with and made ‘em come here. They all helped out, in the end. Most of them, anyway. One of them called me a twat and hang up on me.’

‘Never mind _him_.’ Mark gives his boyfriend a broad smile. ‘I’m _so_ proud that you called them, Rob. That must have been a very special moment.’

‘Thanks. It was. I’d convinced meself that they all hated me, but they didn’t! They were all really, really kind to me. Well, apart from the guy who called me a twat. I don’t think we were ever really mates, in hindsight. We probably weren’t. But what I’m sayin’ is, I don’t know why I ever thought me mates didn’t like me, cos they do! It was just me anxiety tellin’ me that everyone really hated me.’

Rob’s mouth spreads into a shy smile. Something has halted him from speaking further.

Mark finds himself smiling back. He feels a giddiness taking over his stomach. He laughs. ‘What’s the smile for?’  

‘Nothing.’

‘Doesn’t _look_ like nothing,’ Mark says with a suggestive little tilt that makes it impossible not to answer.

‘I guess I’m just thinking about how you’re me favourite mate by far,’ Rob says. He blushes.

Mark blushes too. His eyes flick to Robbie’s mouth. ‘We’re a little bit more than that, aren’t we?’

A little burst of bravery makes Mark kiss Robbie on the mouth. At the same time, a large bus stops right in front of them. It shrouds the boys from the rest of the world, allowing them to snog without anyone seeing them. By the time the bus leaves and the boys are forced to part, Robbie has turned bright red.

‘I don’t think I’m ever gonna get used to that,’ Rob gasps.

‘I don’t think anyone ever does.’

‘Even after a million kisses?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe we should find out.’

Mark kisses Rob again. This time, he plants a quick kiss on Rob’s cheek before anyone can see. Even though it’s less intimate, it has the exact same effect: Rob turns as red as he did a few seconds ago.

‘Yeah, nope, definitely never gonna get used to that,’ Rob says, making Mark laugh.

They enjoy the next couple of minutes in blissful silence. More busses pass. A dozen more passengers are let off. No-one ever looks at Mark and Rob, which is just as well because Robbie gives Mark’s hand a soft squeeze whenever he spots Mark staring at the bank and sighing.

Mark has already accepted his fate, of course, but he’s still a little worried. What will he tell his mum? What will his sister think? Will he still get his pay packet from this month even though he got fired? Will getting fired stop him from getting another job in the future?

More importantly, what about his music lessons? Will he still be able to afford them? Will he be able to buy a guitar one day? Probably not; his lessons are quite expensive, and he has very little savings in the bank.

‘I wish I knew what to do next,’ Mark thinks out loud. ‘With my future, you know. I don’t think I wanna work at a bank anymore.’

‘I don’t blame you. Imagine if you end up working with another guy like Richard! I’d resign on the first day.’

‘My co-workers weren’t _all_ bad.’ Mark thinks about Stephanie and Ling, who stood up for him today. ‘The girls were quite nice. I liked them.’

‘But other than them, did you actually seriously _enjoy_ it?’

Mark shrugs. ‘I guess not. Talking to customers was fun, but I constantly got in trouble because my boss really hates small talk.’

‘He sounds like fun.’

‘I know. Maybe I should just get another job at a clothes shop. The previous one wasn’t that interesting, but at least I never got bullied. And I got loads of free stuff when I left, like my coat.’

Robbie doesn’t look that impressed. ‘Is that really what you want, then? Working in a clothes shop?’

Mark thinks about it seriously. ‘Well, obviously I’d rather become a singer one day, but I think I’m gonna have to put that dream on hold for a while now that I’ve lost my job. I can’t just become a singer full-time. That’d be really irresponsible. My mum wouldn’t like it very much.’

Rob gives Mark an apprehensive look. He considers saying the one thing he’s been wanting to tell Mark ever since they went to that record store four days ago. ‘What if I told you I think you _could_ become a singer full-time? Theoretically.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Hang on, lemme show you.’ Rob searches his pockets. He squeezes a small piece of paper out of the back pocket of his baggy trousers; the same pair he was wearing during their date on Monday. He folds it open, straightens the paper and hands it to Mark.

Mark gives the piece of paper a quizzical look. On it, there’s a date (next week), a place (a gay club, by the sounds of it – Mark vaguely recognises the name from when he was looking up clubs for Reasons™) and a phone number. Mark doesn’t recognise it.

‘What’s this, Rob?’

‘It’s your chance to become a singer full-time.’

This explains nothing. Mark turns over the piece of paper in his hands to see if there is more info on the back, but there’s nothing.

‘What _is_ it though?’ Mark asks. ‘I recognise the club, but —’

‘It’s an audition,’ Rob explains. ‘This is me subtly telling you that I think you should go.’

Mark looks at the piece of paper in his hands. He colours when he tries to picture what the audition could possibly be for. ‘Oh dear. In a place like _that_? What on Earth would people be auditioning for?’

‘They’d be auditioning for a _band_ , obviously,’ Robbie explains. ‘Like, New Kids on the Block or whatever. It’s nothing _weird_ or sexual or something like that. It’s literally just some manager person looking for guys to join a boy band. There’s an advert from the newspapers as well, but I left the clipping in me room. Me mum left it for me on me desk.’

‘Your mum left you an advert for a boy band audition?’ Rob never mentioned being interested in music before.

‘I do actually like singin’, Mark. You’re not the only person who wants to become a performer . . .’

Mark’s eyes go wide. He looks at Robbie with renewed curiosity. Another bus stops right in front of them, but the only thing he’s seeing is Rob, transformed by the knowledge that he _wants to become a performer too!_

‘You like singing?’ Mark reiterates, just to make sure.

Robbie nods a couple of times very quickly.

‘Since when?’

‘Since all me life,’ says Rob. ‘I did try to tell you, but then Richard had to barge in and ruin it all . . .’

Mark thinks he knows what Robbie means. On Monday, in the record shop, Rob did say something about being something of an entertainer himself. Unfortunately, it happened right when Richard appeared.

‘I can’t believe I didn’t know,’ says Mark. ‘I should have asked.’

‘Don’t worry about it. It’s not something I really like to tell people, to be honest. Singing’s just something I do whenever I get me hands on a microphone during karaoke, which happens once every six months maybe. And I took part in a few plays when I was in primary school. I think I sang the most songs of all of me classmates.’

Mark can relate. ‘I once played Jesus in my school play. The mayor even visited, can you believe it?’

‘Wow! Did he enjoy it?’

‘I think so. I didn’t talk to him. But my mum said he was crying laughing throughout.’

‘I take it he was crying laughing in a _good_ way and not a “why the fuck did I leave me office” sort of way. That’d be awkward.’

‘Oh, yeah. Obviously. I think. Looking back, I never did ask my mum what she meant by it . . .’ Mark scratches the back of his head. He tries to remember what they were talking about before they lost the trail of their chat. ‘Anyway, so I’ve just found out that you sing too. That’s pretty big news.’

‘Is it?’

‘It is. And you’re — you know, good at it? Singing?’

‘Dunno. I’ve been told that I’m pretty good at singin’ songs by Frank Sinatra and artists like that, but I’ve never heard meself back so maybe it’s just something people tell me to make me feel good. I could be absolutely crap for all I know. Maybe I am! I’m probably absolutely crap.’

‘Your mum must think you’re pretty good if she left you that advert for the audition,’ Mark points out.

‘She’s me _mum_ , though. She’s not gonna tell me I’m crap.’

Mark shoots another look at the piece of paper Robbie gave him. Previously just an ordinary piece of paper stuck in Robbie’s trousers, it has now taken on something rather magical, like it’s an ancient map that will lead to a cave full of treasure. This audition could be his one shot at becoming the songwriter he’s always wanted to become, regardless of whether he can still afford his music lessons.

But he doesn’t want to do it alone.

‘If your mum thinks you should audition, then I think you should audition too,’ Mark says.

Rob scoffs. ‘Not a chance, mate.’

‘Why bring it up, then?’ Mark waves a casual hand at the piece of paper with the date and phone number on it. ‘Why tell me about it if you’re not planning’ to go yourself?’

‘I only brought it up because I want _you_ to audition, obviously. You practically look like a member of a boy band already.’

The compliment makes Mark feel rather fuzzy inside, but it’s not enough to tempt Mark into auditioning. He crosses his arms in a rather unsuccessful attempt to look more imposing. ‘Well, _I’m_ not going to audition either,’ he says. ‘Not unless _you_ do it too.’

‘We can’t _both_ audition,’ Robbie points out flatly.

‘Why not? How many members does New Kids have? Four? Five? Those are pretty big odds, aren’t they? We could end up making’ the band together!’

‘You say that like there’ll only be six people auditioning! I bet there’ll be hundreds! Thousands! I can’t do it. I flat-out refuse.’

Rob has a point – there probably _will_ be hundreds of boys auditioning, and frankly Mark doesn’t have that much faith in his own singing abilities –, but Mark has a strangely good feeling about this. Maybe it’s just the sun shining down on them or the scent of the flowers next to the bus stop getting to him, but he genuinely thinks this could be _it_. This could very well be their big break; their one and only chance of becoming more than just a truant or a sad bank clerk.

It’s like they’re getting stardom and celebrity handed to them on a plate.

Mark also understands Rob’s reluctance, though. After all, it’s not as if Mark has any right to feel particularly confident himself. He _knows_ he has an average voice. He _knows_ his looks are just all right. His dancing skills, or lack thereof, are the accumulation of the nights he spent stood in front of his mirror, singing Elvis.

And his songs? He doesn’t even know if he can call them songs yet. Right now, they’re just ideas that exist inside his head.

But Mark does have one thing: hope. A lot of it.

And if all else fails, he can always _bribe_ Rob into coming with him.

‘I’ll show you my bedroom if you come and audition with me?’

Rob shrieks so loudly that two passers-by accidentally drop their bags of shopping and Mark has to help them pick up their oranges. By the time Mark re-joins Robbie on the metal bench, Rob must have shaken his head in disapproval nearly twenty times.

‘I can’t believe me ears, Mark. Are you seriously tryin’ to abuse me feelings? This is bribery! No wonder you got fired from a bank.’

‘I wouldn’t call it _bribery_ ,’ Mark shrugs. ‘It’s more like me giving you an _incentive_ , maybe.’

‘So bribery, then. You’re bribin’ me.’

Mark gives Robbie’s hand a perfectly innocent squeeze. ‘Has it _helped_ , though?’

Rob squints. He gives Mark the fiercest, most stubborn look he can muster up, but it just makes Mark laugh. Of _course_ he’s going to audition with Mark.

‘Okay. _Fine_.’ Rob breathes a low, demonstrative sigh. ‘You’ve convinced me. I’ll go to that audition with you. But I’m not just gonna do it cos I wanna do “boyfriend stuff” with you in your bedroom. Embarrassing meself in front of me peers sounds like _loads_ of fun. Shall we meet up at yours next week to buy matching outfits at the fancy dress shop?’

Mark rolls his eyes, but it’s immediately succeeded by a smile. ‘Does that mean you’re in, then?’

Rob drops the sarcasm. He smiles too. ‘Yeah. I’m in. I’m in.’

‘Promise?’

‘Promise, mate,’ Rob says, and Mark can tell that he actually means it this time. They’re doing this. They’re going to audition for a _boy band._

Now that they’ve officially decided they’re going to audition, Rob feels a sense of calmness and curiosity wash all over him. He may not be able to picture himself ever making it to the next stages of the auditioning process, but auditioning itself actually doesn’t seem so terrible. He just needs to remember to breathe. And if all else fails, he can always say that he’s been on another date with Mark Owen . . .

‘Do you think we need to prepare songs or something?’ Rob turns the piece of paper over, forgetting for a moment that he only copied the basic details of the audition from the newspaper clipping. ‘I don’t think it said so in the advert . . .’

Mark’s face lights up with a sudden, brilliant idea. ‘I could do my Elvis impression!’

To illustrate, Mark does his best Elvis impression. Although a couple of passers-by briefly stop to look at the impression, it isn’t that impressive. It probably won’t do Mark any favours if he does it in front of a serious judging panel.

‘Maybe just sing one of your original songs, Mark, mate. No offence.’

But Mark takes it to heart. He looks all of a sudden very sad. ‘But I worked _years_ on that impression! Couldn’t you tell?’

Rob gives an apologetic shake of his head. ‘Not really, mate. Again, no offence. I’m sure you’d do very well if we were auditioning for below average impressions of rock-‘n-roll stars . . . Maybe you could ask the manager of the boy band if they’ll be doing Elvis covers.’

Mark demonstratively crosses his arms. He pouts in the pretence of being very upset, which he isn’t really. It just makes him look more adorable than ever.

‘Are you angry with me?’ Rob laughs.

Mark sniffs. He rubs his nose. ‘I’m not _angry_ ,’ he says in the best ‘fake upset’ voice he can muster up. ‘I’m just, you know, really, _really_ disappointed . . .’

Mark pretends to sob. At first Rob doesn’t know how to respond to it, but then he diffuses the situation by planting a soft, quick kiss on Mark’s cheek; softer than any kiss they’ve shared so far. Mark stops being pretend-upset immediately. 

‘You’re right, I shouldn’t do the whole Elvis thing, should I?’

‘Probably not.’

Mark thinks about what else he could do. He has his original songs, of course, but he doesn’t know if they’re actually any good. If his songs are bad, he’ll _never_ get through, no matter how good he sounds singing them.

As for his voice, it’s not that strong. Mark can more or less hold a tune, but he knows he sounds quite soft and gentle, and not at all like the hard, raspy voices that proper pop stars have. Unfortunately, he can’t ask his music teacher to teach him how to sound better either; his final paycheck from the band probably won’t pay enough for another music lesson.

‘Do you know any other pop stars you could sing songs of?’ Rob asks.

Mark’s not sure. The only other option he can think of is singing one of the songs they often performed during his music lessons: a Prince track, one of his favourites. It’s not perfect, but it should suit his voice well enough.

‘I might do a Prince song,’ Mark says, explaining with earnest that singing Prince songs is one of the best things about his music classes. Then two more acts with potentially good audition songs pop into his head. ‘Or I could do Radiohead! Or Madonna . . . One of those three, anyway.’

‘Are they your favourites? Along with Elvis?’

Mark nods. He explains that Prince was his first ever live concert and that he used to have a big crush on Madonna when he was a little younger. He wouldn’t necessarily call Madonna his idol, but there’s something about her tours that he thinks are awe-inspiring. Her last tour alone had about seven costume changes!

‘Her shows are just amazing, aren’t they?’ Mark marvels. ‘She puts so much effort into them. I don’t know if my voice suits her songs, though. Maybe I should go with Prince after all. The jury probably won’t like Radiohead. Yeah, I’ll go with Prince.’

‘I don’t think _I’d_ sound good singing Prince,’ Rob thinks out loud. ‘I should probably just do what I’m good at. Well, what I’ve been _told_ I’m good at, anyway. You know, singing old swing songs and stuff. Frank Sinatra, that sort of thing.’

Mark can imagine it already: Robbie, crooning away on stage in black-and-white, a beautifully tailored suit adorning his body. ‘Oh, I’d love to see that. I might ask if I’m allowed to watch your audition!’

Rob shrieks. ‘Watch my audition? Are you serious? Do you not think this is scary enough as is, mate? I wasn’t even seriously considering going till ten minutes ago – I only brought it up cos I thought _you’d_ be perfect for it! Which you are, by the way. I mean, look at you. Jeez.’

‘Oh, don’t say _that_. _You’re_ handsome too!’

‘Oh, I _know_. I mean, _hello_.’ Rob gestures at himself as if to say, _have you_ seen _me?_ ‘I’m just sayin’ that being in a boy band would suit _you_ a lot more. You know what I mean? Mums would love you. Girls too, probably. And some boys. But I don’t think I’d really fit in _meself_ , if what I’m sayin’. Unless this boyband is gonna be all “hard” and _grrr!_ You know what I mean? But I don’t think it will be.’

Mark nods thoughtfully. He’s given the boy band some thought himself, and he’d be very surprised if it ended up being like a tough rock band. If he made the band, he’d probably be singing love songs.

‘It’ll probably be more _Be My Girl_ than _Hangin’ Tough_ ,’ Mark concludes as much.

‘I have no idea what you mean, Mark, but I’m going to nod and pretend I do anyway.’

With the audition having been decided on – it takes place in about a fortnight, on a Saturday –, the conversation naturally takes a different turn. They look at the bank up ahead. If they look closely, they can easily make out Mark’s desk. Next to it, there’s the cash machine, still broken. A little farther ahead, there’s Stephanie and Ling, obviously working together on some paperwork but not daring to speak. In spite of what happened in the parking lot, business in the lobby has proceeded as normal.

Then Mark looks closer and sees something that makes his heart sink. At his former desk, Richard seems to be tearing up and shredding pieces of paperwork with the speed of light.

_Mark’s_ paperwork.

‘Is that Richard tearing up all my paperwork at my desk?’ Mark squints. He puts his right hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight blinding his view. ‘Oh dear, I think it is.’

‘That didn’t take him long, did it?’

Mark pouts. It’s only now that he is witnessing Richard Toole obviously tearing up _his_ paperwork that Mark again remembers he’s been fired. He’s been fired! And to make matters worse, Richard is now getting rid of all the papers he struggled so hard to fill in.

Rob can see Mark’s features flicker with a sort of sadness. He instinctually reaches for his school backpack on the floor; the one filled with textbooks, post-its, glue and an empty lunch box. ‘Would it be _really useful_ if I said I had actually anticipated this sort of situation already?’ Rob says as if he has done just that.

‘What do you mean?’

Right on cue, Rob reaches into his rucksack and theatrically conjures up a blue whoopee cushion from the joke and fancy dress shop he and Mark visited four days ago. It looks small enough to fit on Mark’s former desk chair, but not big enough to make an awful lot of noise if Richard actually were to sit on it.

‘We can’t use _that_ ,’ Mark disapproves.

Rob rolls his eyes. ‘Right, cos it’d be really “awful” and “mean” and we shouldn’t do it because someone somewhere would probably get a _tiny_ bit upset,’ he says, with his fingers making inverted commas in the air.

‘I’m not saying that — I’m saying it’s too small!’ Mark gives the whoopee cushion in Rob’s hand a quick poke and a squeeze. As he thought, it doesn’t produce much of a sound at all. If they were to put it in a busy lobby, no-one would hear it. ‘We can do much better than that.’

Rob’s mouth spreads into a wide grin. He sits back to look at Mark as if it’s the first time he’s ever seen him. Is this really the same boy who said he’d feel terrible if he pranked someone? Is this the same boy who actually went and _apologised_ for losing his temper on the phone? Is this the same boy who said whoopee cushions were childish just four days ago?

Rob can hardly believe it. It’s as if he and Mark have synchronised and arrived at the same wavelength.

‘Is it just me, Mark, or have I been a really bad influence on you?’

Rob’s question could so easily be mistaken as a throwaway comment about the naughty things they’ve done, but it’s so much more than that. It’s a question that forces Mark to talk about what Robbie means to him only two weeks into their acquaintance.

‘I wouldn’t call you a bad influence at all, actually.’ Mark casts down his eyes. He’s blushing; his cheeks have taken on a warm, happy glow. ‘Like I said on our date — like I said after we _kissed_ . . . before I met you, I never really thought I could ever _be_ anyone. I thought that I’d always have to work at the bank and that I’d be bullied for the rest of my life. I didn’t even tell my mum about how I felt about working at the bank. I’d just go home, take off my shoes and head to my room without talking to anyone. And if they did ask, I’d just lie. I never told them that working at Observer’s Bank felt like walking on eggshells.’

Rob remembers. After they’d kissed, Mark told him exactly how he felt about their friendship, word for word, and how he’d felt before they met. ‘You said you felt scared all the time.’

‘I did. But then I met you and you told me how to stand up to Richard and you showed an interest in my music, and it changed everything.’ Mark smiles. He gives Robbie’s hand a shy, appreciative squeeze. ‘I don’t know how many times I’m going to have to say this, Rob, but I feel a lot happier now. So much happier. And even if I probably _will_ have to look for a new job before I ever win an audition or something like that, I don’t think it really matters as long as _you’re_ here to push me in the right direction. So to answer your question, you’re not a bad influence at all. Anyone would be lucky to have you as their mate.’

Rob blushes furiously. He had imagined a million different scenarios of Mark pouring out his heart like this, but he never got round to rehearsing his own response. What Mark has just told him has nearly rendered him speechless.  

‘ _Wow_.’ Rob shakes his head in disbelief. He feels his heart swell up with warmth and pride. ‘I don’t know what to say, mate! That is _probably_ the nicest thing anyone has ever said about me. Second after me mum tellin’ me I looked handsome in me jacket this morning.’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Mark says. ‘I just wanted you to know how I feel about you.’

But Rob insists. ‘No, I _should_ say something, cos I agree with everything you’ve just said. As in, I feel the same way about _you_. You’re the best friend and boyfriend anyone could ever wish for, and I’m really glad I picked up the phone one day and pretended to be an ageing pensioner. Yeah. I think that just about sums it up.’

Mark smiles. The sun is shining still. There isn’t a cloud in sight. A soft, perpetual stream of hot spring air runs over their faces, making Mark’s hair move gently in the breeze. The faint scent of daisies and lavender paints the air. A small, precious flower next to the metal bench looks perfect for picking up and giving to Rob as a gift.

But what Mark notices most of all, is how beautiful Robbie looks.

‘Yeah, I think that sums it up too.’

They kiss again. This time, it’s within the full view of the passengers who have just left the bus in front of them, not caring if anyone sees. By the time they separate, Richard has briefly left Mark’s desk to get rid of more paperwork.

‘Now, shall we go and get a bigger whoopee cushion?’

THE END

 

 

 


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